


The Long Leash : Perfect Zero

by Ryoko21



Series: The Long Leash [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Canes, Clones, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Future Fic, Future Technology, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masochism, Master/Slave, Mild Erectile Dysfunction, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outer Space, Punishment, Sadism, Science Fiction, Sexual Content, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Spies & Secret Agents, Submission, Super Soldier, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 54,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3162038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryoko21/pseuds/Ryoko21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an attempt to break up a ring of human traffickers known as The Long Leash, Ezekiel Price goes undercover as an Owner to try to get close to the head of the ring and shut it down. Along the way, he picks up broken Assets and tries to rehabilitate them, without blowing his cover. </p><p>Zeke picks up his first asset, a combat-trained operative called Zero, who's finished with killing. Zeke struggles to turn this former-killer into a sensual lover, while also trying to adjust to his role as an Owner. </p><p> </p><p>*This is the first part in a much longer series. Please, please, please leave comments if you like this/ don't like this/ think it had promise but something is totally out of kilter. Anything would be greatly appreciated, thanks! Beta'd by intrepidem, as she contains all the awesomeness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Pod

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks to KosetteCloud for her awesome beta skills in the first four chapters. If anybody hears from her, can you let me know that she's alive? She kinda dropped off the radar. 
> 
> intrepidem has taken over beta-ing in chapter five, and she's awesome! Thanks a bunch!

> Chapter 01 – Zero

 

                It isn’t the cold that wakes me. The chill has sunk into my bones, and by that point I barely feel it apart from the ache that it causes in my extremities. But I know that I am cold, just as I know that I am currently contained in a pod just large enough to fit me and the necessary instruments to keep me alive. I know that if I were capable of moving anything, I’d only be able to move it an inch in any direction before I hit into the solid metal of my container. But the alternative, being set adrift in space with no protection, is still the less agreeable option. Although not by much.

                It’s an incessant beeping that wakes me, pulls me out of my artificial slumber, makes me peel one eye open and glance at the monitor in front of me. The numbers, now at twenty-eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds, only tell me how long I have before the door will open. The relevant questions – where I am, who is out there – are left unanswered.

                I force myself to blink again, then to turn my head. There is a mask over my face, a tube down my throat, and I can hear the sound of air being ventilated into my chest, although the cold makes it so that I really don’t feel it. I try to look down, forcing the tube in my trachea to bend with me, and that causes a spike of pain that I feel even through the numbing cold. I force my neck to bend until my forehead rests against the outer wall of my pod, only an inch in front of my face. My throat burns, the icy tube feels like it has scraped me raw. It doesn’t matter. In less than half an hour that door will open, and my new owner will expect me to walk out of this container on my own. It isn’t an easy prospect, but I know from experience that it can be accomplished.

                Once I can see my fingers in the dim light from the clock, I focus on getting them to move. I have to put my attention on my left hand first. My view of the right hand is blocked by a blue plastic cuff on that arm. I can see the cuff, but I can’t actually feel where it is attached to me, where its ports have punctured my veins, filtering the toxins from my blood and checking my oxygen levels. It has stopped injecting me with a light sedative, just enough to keep me calm and allow me to drift, likely in the last few minutes since the hatch has been queued to open. Another person might take hours to fully metabolize the drug, but my body can process it much faster. Recovering from the near-hypothermic state I am in, however, will take nearly all of the time I have left. In the past, I have been able to recover with only seconds to spare, pulling myself out of the pod on legs that shook, using my arms for balance because my fingers wouldn’t close around the grips. I’d been fast. The slower ones had been eliminated.

                But it is fine. This is routine. I’ve done this before, and I know that once the fingers of my left hand are moving, I can slide my left arm across my body and massage my right fingers into motion. I won’t have the dexterity to get the cuff off, but I can pull it free when the door opened. It won’t take much to get it to release, although pulling its probes out of my skin always leaves that arm bleeding and partially paralyzed. I will need to get feeling back into my legs, though, and once I can move my arms and increase my circulation it will be easier to force my leg muscles to move.

               The trickiest part will be releasing the harness that keeps me strapped to the seat. The buckles are difficult with my numb fingers, and there is no way to see it with the breathing mask still on. I will have to fumble around and listen for the click of the locking mechanism to tell me when I am free. It would be easier without the mask on, but that will come off last, in case the oxygen levels in the pod are too low. If necessary, I can get out of the pod with it still on, although it only has a few inches of tether and will be jerked off of my face when I step out of the pod.

               I can do this. I’ve done it before. This is routine.

               Never in this bad of shape, though. I try to recall all the injuries I sustained before I was been dispatched, and I feel my heart rate pick up. I try to steady it, try to catalogue what I remember. I had been beaten, but not expertly. The men had been angry. I had failed, but I was still a valuable asset. They had beaten me out of anger, but they hadn’t irreparably damaged me. I hadn’t fought back. I would have been killed if I had. I wonder, idly, if I’ll regret that choice.

               I’d taken several hits to the face, before I’d gone to ground to protect myself. The cold is the most likely reason that it hasn’t swollen, but I have no doubts that half of my face is bruised. I remember the taste of blood, and speculate on a split lip or a broken cheekbone. When I had hit the ground, they’d started kicking me, and I likely have cracked ribs that the cold prevents me from feeling. The rest of the damage is from old and partially healed slashes on my legs and arms, all from previous fights and missions. I disregard them as unimportant.

               My left hip aches, even through the cold, but that’s an old wound. Nothing left but ugly scars as proof that I’d been hit with a pulse rifle and survived, although it had broken every bone and blood vessel on that side of my pelvis. I’d survived that, and this isn’t as difficult.

               There is a routine, I remind myself. Fingers first. Think logically. Follow the plan.

               But the person on the outside doesn’t know the plan. I hear the hiss of the hydraulics on the door at twenty-five minutes and my pod floods with warm air and bright light. I feel air being forced into my lungs as I forget to breathe. Caught unaware and unready, I freeze. In a battle, I would attack as soon as the door begins to open. But here, I’m helpless. This isn’t how this is supposed to go. I’m not ready.

                The light from outside blinds me and I close my eyes. Strong, warm hands touch me. The mask comes away first, and the latches release easily under experienced fingers. The hands hold my face as the tube comes out of my mouth, but I retch anyway. Bile comes up, as there is nothing in my stomach, and my face is turned just enough that the vomit lands beside me and not on me. I listen to how quickly it splatters and calculate full gravity. We’re in a personal ship, then, not the cargo bay at a storage facility, where gravity is kept low to make moving cargo easier. I’ve been purchased by a new owner, most likely one looking for a short-term asset. I’ll probably be beaten to death.

                I blame it on the cold, that I feel nothing about that statement.

                Next comes the harness, and I can’t feel his fingers working but I hear the click of the latch and then the movement of the straps. The harness falls away, freeing me completely. I try to stand, succeeded only in twitching my foot. The movement sends a lance of pain up my leg, and tells me that it will be several minutes more before I regain control of my legs. I doubt my new owner will be patient while I recover myself. He is distracted for the moment with my cuff, and I can feel him slowly peeling back the plastic and pulling the probes from my arm. I try to move my leg again, but the second twitch is less successful than the first.

                He is doing something, then, along my abdomen. I pry my eyes open and glance down. I had forgotten that they taped my documents to my chest before they jettisoned me. I watch him through my lashes as he picks at the tape and then slowly pulls it away, leaving a red stripe across my skin. I can’t feel it, not even when he pulls the packet of papers off of me and tosses it out of the pod. I hear it hit the floor somewhere outside, and repress the urge to advise him that he will want that, later. Maybe he won’t. Maybe I’ll be dead before he has any use for it.

                “You’re going to be okay,” I hear him say, and I am suddenly glad that I’m nearly paralyzed with cold. Otherwise I might make a noise of derision.

                But then he’s pulling me out, and my body screams at the movement. I feel him stumble under my weight and try to stand on my own, but my legs won’t respond. His skin feels like fire against mine as he grips my arm and around my waist. My consciousness fades and I fight to hold it, manage to pull myself back when he sets me down on a table. No. The padding tells me that it's a gurney, and the scent tells me it’s new. I glance around and everything I can see tells me expensive. I close my eyes again, trying to give the illusion that I am still fighting for consciousness. It doesn’t seem to matter if I appear weak. If he hasn’t killed me for it already, he isn’t likely to.

                He lays me out gently, making sure all my limbs are comfortably positioned, but then he straps me down. The straps around my wrists and ankles are made of a cloth-like material, scratchy and synthetic. It doesn’t take much to guess Velcro, which is fairly standard in personal craft medical rooms. In the event of an emergency, it will keep a patient from landing on the ceiling if gravity goes out. I can pull free of them once feeling returns to my limbs. Until then, it will keep me on the table while my body is wracked with tremors in the process of returning to normal temperature.

                I blink my eyes open again, glance at my new owner. He has moved away from me and is pulling something out of an overhead cabinet. His profile is athletic and slim. Not a fighter’s body, but keeps in shape. Mid-thirties, roughly, with short blonde hair that hangs around his face. His eyes are blue, bright with intelligence. His clothes are as new as this ship, but he wears them comfortably. Old money, then, but on a new venture. He turns to me and I let my eyes slip half-closed. He doesn’t glance at my face.

                The needle in his hand isn’t surprising, considering that he’s brought me to a med bay, but it does pose an alarming number of possibilities. Attached to a long tube and a bag labeled as saline, it looks like he is going to give me an intravenous drip, although I can’t guess for what purpose. I contemplate the nineteen different ways I can kill him with that needle. I lay still as he slips it into my vein in a move that has a practiced ease, but not the fluidity of an expert. I doubt I’ll be used as a science experiment, then. It is a slight relief. Out of all the possible things he could do with me, that idea is the least appealing. I’ve had enough experience with that to know that I would rather avoid it.

                I lay quietly as he tapes the tubing to my arm and hangs the bag beside the bed. The surface under me is warm, and I realize belatedly that he has heated the bed beneath me. When he puts a blanket over me, I feel my body break out in shivers. I am suddenly glad that he’s strapped me down, because the temptation to curl into a ball is strong.

                He puts a clear, medical-style mask over my face, and it’s a lot less restricting than the one in my pod, resting lightly over my nose and mouth. The air inside is warm and wet and has the smell of chemicals. I can’t guess what he feels that I need to breathe, but I don’t feel any lack of oxygen, so I disregard it as unimportant.

                I am so preoccupied with the mask that I don’t see him fill a syringe, don’t notice it at all until he moves to inject it into the line in my arm. I do flinch this time, but it only flexes the muscles of that arm and hardly pulls on my bindings. I strain my eyes but there is no way to know what he’s injected me with. There are too many clear liquids possible to narrow the scope. I suppose that I’ll know if it’s acid soon enough.

                My flinch must tip him off that I’m awake. A moment later, he’s shining a light in my eyes. I open them both to let him know that I’m aware. He pulls a seat next to me and sits down.

                “Can you hear me?” he asks. I nod, not sure if I can trust my voice.

                “Do you know where you are?” I shake my head. Beyond the obvious, that I am in a personal ship, I have no idea. We could have gone anywhere before he pulled me from my pod, it is impossible to tell how long I had been adrift.

                “You’re in my ship, just outside of Satellite 16. It’s day 279 of the 59th year.”

                I had only been adrift five days, then. It must be my injuries that are slowing my recovery.

                “Do you…” he trails and hesitates, then asks, “What can I call you?” My brain feels muddled. What did he give me? It doesn’t matter. I have to answer the question verbally. The way he asked it, I can only think to respond with the name that my former own called me. It’s the same thing everyone calls me.

                “Zero,” I tell him, and my voice comes out raspy but lacks the pain that I know I should be feeling when I speak.

                “I’m Zeke. Ezekiel Price,” he clarifies, although I doubt that I’ll be allowed to call him that. “Do you know why you’re here?”

                “You bought me,” I respond. “I’m your asset.” I wonder, hazily, if he thinks I’m new to this. Does he think that he’s my first owner? Or – I glance around – maybe I’m his first slave? It’s possible, considering my last failure. New owners are generally given broken assets for their first buy. It takes a bit of practice to keep slaves alive, or so I’ve been told. But then, I’m hardier than most.

                I can feel the drugs working in my system, feel the lethargy steal over me. My temperature is rising, and I am overcome with tremors as my body tries to help the process. It looks like my new owner wants to ask more questions, but he glances at my shaking form and reconsiders.

                “Get some sleep,” he advises. “I’ve given you enough sedative that you should be able to sleep through the worst of your recovery. In a few hours, when you wake up, I’ll have questions for you.”

               It is easy to give in to his order, the same one that my body had been giving me since he pulled me out of the pod. I don’t know if I should tell him that my body metabolizes sedatives faster, that I’d likely be awake before he plans. I stay silent as he dims the lights and leaves the room. I give a half-hearted tug at my restraints, already feeling the sedatives steal my strength. When I wake, I think, I can try to free myself. If nothing else, maybe I can give myself a quick end, or convince him that I’m too much trouble to keep around. I am tired of being tortured, of being asked to torture others. I don’t want to die, not really. But living is so tiring. I just want to rest.

             These mind-games are no better.

             This master is no better.

             I am so tired.


	2. Federation Space Justice Department

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as you can probably tell, this fic shifts perspectives a bit. Let me know if it's too much. Right now it's just going to be two, but I might throw in more later. 
> 
> I've got quite a few of these chapters written and waiting for a beta-read. If anybody has any kinks that they'd like to see, let know what you're interested in and I'll try to fit it in. I've got some hard-core bdsm kinks, plus I really like dub-con scenarios, and then I'm also really into hurt/comfort, and I've got a medical-kink about a mile wide. So, yeah. You're definitely going to see all of that if this fic goes on as long as I think it will.
> 
> And once again, thanks for the help to KosetteCloud.

Chapter 02 – Zeke

_Two months earlier_

                “What you’re asking me to do is unconscionable.”

                I’ve known the woman sitting on the other side of the office since the day I’d been recruited, fifteen years ago. She looks much the same now as she had then – serious, professional, strict. Her dark hair is in its customary severe bun and her clothes are clean and neatly pressed. She is holding a screen no thicker than a piece of paper, flipping through information too rapidly to really be reading it. The placard on her desk reads, “Susan Daniels, Commander, Federation Space Justice Department.”

                “What I’m asking you to do is your job. You are a spy. I am asking you to go undercover to stop a slave-trafficking ring. One of the oldest, largest, and most corrupt operations that we know of.”

                “You’re asking me to own slaves, to play nice with the pieces of garbage who own them, and to do it for at least a full year.”

                “Zeke,” she says with a sigh, and drops her tablet onto the desk to rub at her temples. She rarely calls me by my real name, even when we are alone in the office. It’s risky for my cover. Better that even my coworkers know me only as an active agent, not as a person. “Yes, this is a deep cover operation. I need you to get into this organization and find the head. I’m tired of cutting off limbs. Do you know how difficult it is to pin down illegal human trafficking in outer space? Every time we have something, the suspect just jumps to another satellite and out of our jurisdiction. And that’s the few that we can actually find, that aren’t hidden on private shuttles and satellites that I don’t have authorization to search. It’s going to take a long time to do this right, and I want this organization wiped out once and for all. You’re the only agent I have that could take this mission.”

                I’m grateful that she doesn’t say, “You’re the only agent I have without a family or a spouse. The only one I can send on a yearlong mission with no one to miss you.” But it’s still obvious. Over thirty and with a long string of short relationships with men and women, I am one of the few agents left without family ties.

                I was nineteen when I’d fallen in love for the first time, and I hadn’t dared to let anyone get close since then. I’d been young, naïve, and wealthy, while he had been mature, intelligent, and charismatic. I’d been taken instantly, following him on a year-long whirlwind adventure across the galaxy. I’d been a rich orphan, with far more money than common sense. My parents had died when I was in my early teens and left me to the tender care of their accountants and business managers, who had all been far more interested in pandering to me than in disciplining me. They’d had little control of me in the beginning, and had been helpless to stop me once I’d decided that I was in love. I’d given him anything he asked for, and stopped just short of signing over the company to him. (That would have aroused suspicion, so he wouldn’t let me.) By the time I’d realized where my money was going, by the time I realized how deep his ambitions truly ran, it had been too late. Thousands of people had died, and in the end it was my fault.

                There hadn’t been anything but circumstantial evidence connecting me to the attack on Satellite 12. Officially, it had been labeled an accident. Satellite 12 was old. It had originally been launched as a prison, and then had been converted to a residential satellite when the Federation Space Prison System deemed the moon their permanent location. Like a lot of early satellites, it was prone to failures and collapses, without the budget to modernize or attract wealthier residents or businesses. Crime was rampant, and most of the trade on the satellite dealt with drugs, prostitution, or smuggling. When the atmosphere generator had suddenly collapsed, no one had been terribly surprised. Probably not even the citizens, who had all suddenly found themselves without oxygen, and had soon after perished. Almost everyone who would have called for an investigation had been on the satellite when it had gone cold. After a few newspaper articles and a couple candlelight vigils, most people had forgotten about the tragedy of Satellite 12.

                I was one of the very few people who knew that there had been signs of sabotage. We’d been close to the satellite when the tragedy had occurred. My lover had told me that he was planning a business venture there, and then had disappeared with half my bank account just before the Department showed up to question me. It didn’t take much to put the two together.

                I had confessed what I knew, but it was obvious even from the beginning that I’d been a pawn. I’d been kept in the dark, so I couldn’t even give them information about why and what my lover had been planning. Even his name, Tristen Maestri, had been a fake. Still, they’d hit me with an accessory charge that I’d been too guilt-wracked to protest.

                The Commander had taken an interest in me. I’d been young and beautiful, well-educated and accustomed to the lifestyle of the upper social classes. I’d been born on earth, so I had the added benefit of a citizen’s passport, making it easier for me to travel planet-side than any of her other agents. She’d offered me a deal – work for them as a spy and none of this would ever be linked back to my name. I had jumped at her offer, buried myself in playing different parts in different lives and trying to forget my own. I had learned to change my appearance just enough that I wouldn’t be recognized, but I rarely met anyone from my old life anyway. I learned to seduce men and women, learned how to talk people into telling me their secrets. I’d become a very good spy.

                Only the Commander knows my real name and identity. In the public eye, Ezekiel Price does the same things as any other wealthy aristocrat – business meetings, luxury trips, and high-class entertainment. I make random appearances from time to time so that my absence doesn’t become suspicious. A full year, though, might be too long to go unnoticed.

                “Why such a long mission?” I question.

                “You’ll need to gain their trust, obviously. But, also, there’s only one way to meet the ringleader for this operation, who goes by the codename The Controller. They have slave-games once a year at a secret location. If you compete and win these games with the team of slaves you purchase, you’ll be able to meet The Controller. He’s the one I want, him and his inner circle. If we can get them, the entire ring will dissolve.”

                “What else should I know?”

                “The slave-ring calls itself The Long Leash. The slaves are all owned by affluent members of society, although you probably already deduced that. They’re trained in a variety of skills, from combat to the arts to sexual skills. They’re used as bodyguards, assassins, and sexual slaves. They are all male and all above the age of consent, so it’s difficult to pin a rape charge, especially since many of them were originally captured as prostitutes or drug addicts. Others have criminal records and are unwilling to cooperate with us. Without their cooperation, we don’t have anything. We can’t even authorize a search. It’s just two men travelling together, and we can’t pin a crime on either of them. And those are the victims that we can get our hands on, which are very few compared to how many we believe are out there.”

                “The slaves are all males?” That’s unusual, in my experience. “Why?”

                “The most common theory is that the organization doesn’t want to contend with breeding, with having expectant mothers or with their members having bastard children by the slave.”

                “And what do you think?” I ask, because I’ve found that the most common answer was rarely the most truthful.

                “What are young men usually used for, Agent?” she asks enigmatically. Commander Daniels rarely gives a straight answer.

                “They’re cannon-fodder. You think they’re trying to start some kind of war?”

                “Organized crime syndicate, more likely. Anarchy, if it’s as far-reaching as I think. It wouldn’t take a huge army to overtake a satellite. Well-trained, hiding amongst civilians, being paid by the affluent men who are privately controlling them and publicly condemning them? They could do a lot of damage. Not to mention that these soldiers are basically brainwashed. I’d like to save as many of them as possible, retrain them and return them to civilian life.”

                Modern satellites, despite the name, are a lot like floating cities. As space travel has advanced and humanity spreads across the galaxy, more and more of the population lives permanently on satellites and in space ships. Trade with the earth still flourishes, but is becoming less vital as the satellites become more self-sufficient. Keeping control of the far-stretching distances is a challenge, and much of the responsibility falls to the private government of the individual satellites. Even then, it only extends as far as the satellite’s gravity fields. The Federation was established to bring law to the empty parts of space and to maintain peace between the satellites. It hasn’t been a totally successful endeavor.

                “You can’t possibly think these men are dangerous. They’re used as slave labor. How would their captors manage to control them if the slaves were well-educated and trained?”

                “It’s a good question,” she concedes, but she’s already pulling something out of her desk. She tosses me a vial of blue liquid. Inside is a circular piece of metal, about as round and thick as a straw and just over an inch in length. Large chunks are missing, worn away as though it had crumbled.

                “What’s this?” I ask.

                “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” she responds, “but whatever it is, it keeps the captives under wraps. We’ve pulled them out of the few bodies that we’ve managed to locate. The tech is state of the art, years beyond what we have here. And it’s smart. It deteriorates as soon as the host is dead, which is the only time we’ve found them. We can barely identify it, let alone study it.”

                “Do you think it’s some kind of tracking chip?”

                “Unlikely. It’s too sophisticated for that, although I’d bet it also functions as a tracker. It’s located at the base of the neck, so it could possibly be mind control or a behavior inhibitor. I need you, among other things, to figure out what it is and what it does. Right now, we can’t even tell how it works, so chances are slim that we could block it. I need you for this,” she admits. “You’re the only one with the skills to pull it off.”

                “I know,” I say with resignation. It isn’t like I actually have the power to refuse. I could fight her about it, but if Daniels truly wants me on the case, I don’t really have a choice. “What persona are you giving me?” I ask. I’ve played the wealthy drug lord before, but I’m not terribly good at it. Maybe she could set me up as a new politician? Making jumps between colonies made it easier to explain a lack of background, and I have a lot of experience in explaining away holes in my cover.

                But Daniels hesitates, which was very unlike her. Usually by this point, my head would be swimming with my new cover and I’d have a stack of paperwork in front of me. Instead, she flips through a few more files on her tablet before looking me in the eyes.

                “I’m not.”

                “Excuse me?”

                “I’m sending you in as Ezekiel Price. I’m not giving you a cover.”

                “But…”

                “This agency only has limited funds. We don’t have the capacity to make a billionaire appear out of nowhere with a history that spans the last thirty years. Luckily, we already have one in this department.”

                “You can’t be serious.”

                “You will, of course, be compensated for everything you spend on the mission from the assets we seize when you have identified the target.” Which, I think, puts a lot of damn pressure on me to make sure the charges stick. I rub at my temples.

                “This will ruin me as an agent. You know that, right? There will be too much attention on me once this breaks, I’ll lose any kind of anonymity that I might have had.”

                She hesitates again.

                “I am aware of that. This will be your last mission for this department. If this problem is as large and as explosive as I think, losing your abilities as an agent will be a small price to pay.”

                I doubt that she says that lightly. Over the years, she and I have formed a strong working relationship. We’ve taken down hundreds of different organizations, saved thousands of lives. I had never even considered being released from the agency. I’d thought my skills too valuable to lose. For her to trade them is a steep price. But there could be a price for me too.

                “Why would I want to go into a slave ring as myself? Using my own money and my real identity? If this goes south, I could be up on charges with the rest of these bastards. Why not funnel my money into a cover?”

                “They won’t take you if you appear out of nowhere. They want someone with money and history. Despite some large gaps in your past, you’re the best chance we have. They’ll get something on you for blackmail. Then, and only then, will they sell you a slave. Once you own a slave, they have enough blackmail material on you to ensure that you don’t turn on them.”

                “And what will you give them on me?”

                “We have a file on your involvement in the terrorist act that destroyed Satellite 12. We’ve already had an agent slip it to the organization. They were interested. More than interested, actually. They’ve made contact with an agent we’ve had posing as your secretary. It’s the first solid possibility we’ve had.”

                “You had no right!” I growl, incensed that she’d released that information. It’s the kind of cut-throat tactics she was known for, but she’d never used it against me before.

                “Look at this,” she tells me, and hands me a file. Inside is a picture of a corpse; a boy, barely in his twenties, emaciated and shredded. It looks like he’d been beaten, tied up, and then thrown out of an airlock.

                “The only thing that’s strange about that boy,” Commander Daniels says softly, “is that we found his body. Most of them get sold for spare parts to the labs on Satellite 30.”

                I let out a sigh and hand the folder back. Even if that picture hadn’t convinced me, we’re already too far into this to back out now.

                “Parameters? Limits?” I ask.

                “Don’t fail,” she says sternly. “You have leave to do whatever’s necessary to maintain your cover, as long as you do not fail. You’ll need to attract attention, get noticed by the right people. You’ll be completely isolated from this agency. The less contact you have with us, the less risk that your cover will be blown. Your secretary will be your only confidante, and conversations with her will be limited to digital transmissions only. She’ll pass necessary information back to us through blind drops, but we’ll be in no position to bail you out if you get into trouble.”

                And isn’t that an accurate picture of my time with the department? Constantly being dropped into volatile situations with nothing but my wits, and then being asked to relay back information at the risk of being found out and killed. It’s one of the major points about being an agent that I’m no going to miss.

                “Timeline?” I ask.

                “As I said, they hold slave-games once a year. The Controller is known to be a recluse, so if you miss him at that event you might have to wait a year for another chance. We don’t know what they’re planning, so that might be too long.” She pauses then, before giving me a dismissive nod. “It isn’t an easy mission, Agent.”

                “This might be the last time you can call me that. The next time you see me, I won’t work for you anymore,” I say sourly. Daniels smiles, like she always does when she’s won.

                “Good luck, Zeke. And goodbye.”


	3. Emergency Capsule

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback welcome! Thanks to KosetteCloud for beta-ing this chap for me!

Chapter 03 - Zeke

                I’m surprised by how quickly the Department manages to get things arranged.

                Not that I can complain. I gave them total access to my life when I accepted the mission. Access to my money, to my name, to my contacts. They set me up with a middle-aged, partially retired woman named Mari and call her my secretary. I’ve worked with Mari in the past, before she’d stopped taking active missions, and I know that she’s was clear-minded and reliable. I feel better having her at my back, knowing that she is going to be checking in on me. If nothing else, I know she has a sympathetic ear and a problem-solving personality. She arranges everything for the beginning of my mission, from the lavish ship that I’d purchased to the clearances for my departure. She handles the negotiations for me to get a slave and tells me where to wait to pick it up. She even sets herself up as a liaison to my company, and puts herself on the payroll. The last part makes me smile.

                I have some time, of course. These things can’t happen overnight, no matter how zealous my boss is. First I would need to step into my old shoes, to give myself access to the honestly sickening amount of money my parents had left me and that my accountants had continued amassing for me (and themselves). Mari helps, but there’d been a nightmare’s worth of paperwork.

                After that, there are mission briefs about the appallingly little we know about this group, and there are required psychiatric visits to prepare me for the deep-cover mission. All standard, despite the fact that this mission is anything but normal.

                I decide to several lessons in emergency medicine, beyond the basic survival training required by the Department. After all, we have no idea what condition my captives would come to me in, and I hope to keep most, if not all, alive. My teacher is a close, no-nonsense friend who runs a local clinic. She is very thorough in her training and she understands (with very little actual information) that I am going to be in a situation where finding actual medical help might be impossible. So while she does outline specific things that would absolutely need a professional, she also teaches me what to do in an emergency where that is not an option. After working with her every day for a month, I am a lot more optimistic about my chances of not creating accidental casualties on this mission.

                The Department also mandates that I brush up on my self-defense courses. Most agents are required to take defensive training three times a year. I generally get to pass on those activities because my job rarely brings me into a direct combat situation, although I do have a basic knowledge of fighting skills. Because of the uncertain nature of this mission, though, the Commander decides that I will need a refresher course. I ‘m not the best fighter in the group, but I can certainly hold my own. I pass without much difficulty.

                Outside of the Department’s preparations, I also visit several clubs that cater to the BDSM lifestyle. I assume that it will be a large part of this mission, although we don’t really have enough evidence to suggest that. I choose not to participate in any of the scenes, instead opting to watch partners who express an interest in having an audience. It isn’t that I have an aversion to bondage and domination. I’ve actually had a good bit of experience in alternate lifestyles through my role as a spy. I had been both a dominant and a submissive to men and women in my time, and I’d enjoyed most of what I’d been involved in. Still, those relationships, as scripted and calculated as they’d been, had gave me time to get to know the other person, and I find the idea of having sex with a stranger for a single night tempting, but not enough to pursue.

                The other difference, I know, is that these scenes are carefully controlled between two consenting individuals. There are systems in place to keep anyone from being injured, both mentally and physically. In my situation, there will be no such system. And as much as I worry about pushing a slave too far, I am just as concerned for my own psyche. I watch the players at the club, force myself to sit through even the most horrific fantasies that they can contrive, and try to forget that it is all an act. In my mind, though, I know that nothing I see here will be able to prepare me for what I am going to do on this mission.

                Can I be that monster? I wonder. If it saves lives, can I make myself into that person? And how many lives would I have to trade for the safety of the rest? I am faced with hard choices, and I’m not sure that I can make the right one every time. It weighs heavily on my heart.

                When it’s done, when everything is arranged, my secretary gives me the coordinates and I pilot my new ship out of Federation airspace. It is a ship designed to comfortably house twenty, but meant to be piloted by a single person. I’ve flown a fair share of inter-planetary vessels, but never one quite as bulky and awkward as this. It’s like trying to pilot a school bus.

                The inside of the ship looks surprisingly like an earth-style apartment complex. Most of the walls are wood, the floors are carpeted, and the furniture is freestanding (although magnetized to the floor when not in use, for safety reasons). Wood, being much more expensive to grow off-planet than mining for metals and minerals, is fashionable simply because it is expensive and impractical, so it’s nearly everywhere in the ship. It is, apparently, the height of fashion for luxury space vehicles. And I can’t help but think that it is… actually surprisingly nice. It doesn’t have any of that claustrophobic, tin-can feel that most commercial ships have. It’s far from economic or cost-effective, but it’s still kind of nice. Especially considering that I normally live in the Department barracks when not jumping from hotel to hotel while on missions, this kind of luxury is a nice change of pace.

                It takes five days to make the complete trip to the pick-up coordinates just outside of Satellite 16. I feel ready to crawl out of my skin with anticipation. There are only so many times I can check my course calculations, and eventually I find myself prowling the ship for something to do. I am thrilled to find that the ship has a library of antique, paper-bound books, and baffled to find that the ship has a pool, which is horribly impractical and dangerous if the ship loses gravity. I am relieved that it at least has a water-tight cover that secures the pool in an emergency, but it’s still a lot of unnecessary risk. It is also probably the single most expensive item in the ship, considering that water is a vital commodity in space, and few locations have been set up to mine for it off-planet. Ship-board water is constantly recycled, and even garbage is dehydrated before it is discarded, to conserve liquids. Still, when I can no longer stand the sight of mission briefs, I find myself reading a good book and then taking a long swim. It doesn’t quite get rid of my restlessness, but it keeps cabin fever at bay.

                On the fifth day, bored and a little bit anxious, I wait in the cockpit to reach my destination, expecting to see another ship on radar there to meet me. The craft that I detect, though, is far too small to be a ship. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I would have passed it over as space junk. Once it is within range of the ship’s cameras, though, it’s immediately evident what I’m looking at.

                An EC, or emergency capsule, is little more than the name described – a capsule for emergency life support in space. As an absolute last resort, spaceships come with a pod-like device that can fit a single person and keep them alive in space for an indefinite amount of time. The pods are basically floating life-support containers, and they have no piloting capabilities. They can’t make a planetary landing, and their only hope of being picked up is the distress signal they put off. One that this pod, conveniently, does not emit. Without that beacon, it’s like tossing a man into the middle of the ocean in an inflatable rubber ducky and hoping they survive.

                I immediately deploy a tether and pull the craft into the docking bay. It takes a few minutes to pressurize the bay, which allows me to put the ship in autopilot before leaving the cockpit. I force myself to walk down to the cargo bay, trying to keep my temper under wraps. Would it really have been that difficult for them to deliver the slave to me in person? Really? But I know I’ll need to be calm when I meet the slave, especially considering the state I’m likely to find him in. Even short trips in an EC could be hard on the body.

                The Emergency Capsule that I find in my bay is completely generic, without even the required label detailing what ship it belongs to. That is technically illegal, but is the least of the infractions I’m worried about. The screen on the front, which usually details how long the occupant has been on lifesupport, simply says, “Occupant recovery in 30 minutes,” and seems to be counting down.

                Which is baffling, because I’d never heard of a person recovering on their own from Emergency Capsule occupation. Most people need emergency medical attention and a few days of convalescence.

                I’ve had some experience with ECs, so I pull the front panel off and hit the manual override button. The door to the pod opens with a pressurized hiss, revealing a man strapped to the seat, naked and unconscious. He is lithe and muscular, with black hair and features that speak of Asian heritage, although there are few satellites left that aren’t racially mixed. He is also, to put it mildly, beat to hell. Two black eyes and a smattering of cuts and scrapes across his arms and legs, along with heavy bruising that is partially hidden under the harness and wrapping around his torso.

                He is unconscious, which is normal for an EC. After the first few test subjects went insane, they installed a sedative into the blood-processing unit. About all the pod is capable of doing is to keep the occupant asleep, to keep their blood from toxifying, and to keep their lungs working. His skin is pale, but that is likely because his temperature is just above hypothermic, which would slow down the occupant’s heart rate and conserve the unit’s oxygen. Another useful trait of the EC.

                It would be preferable to leave him in the pod until I can get medical attention for him, but that isn’t an option. I go for the breathing mask first, in case the filtration system goes offline now that the pod is docked. I know from experience that it isn’t pleasant to remove the facial covering, due mostly to the tube that keeps the occupant’s trachea from collapsing during upheavals or prolonged sedation. The clasps come away easily, and I turn his head when the tube comes out, so he vomits on the craft and not himself. A rousing success, overall, and I even think that I can see his eyelids moving, although I know that actual consciousness is a while away.

                I reach for the harness next, mostly because I’m concerned about the level of bruising around his abdomen. When I pull it away, I am startled to find that someone has attached a packet of papers around his chest with something that looks appallingly like packaging tape. I take a moment to unhook his cuff, pulling the four small probes carefully free of the vein in his forearm. I don’t have anything on me to stop the trickle of blood that escapes, but they’ll probably stop bleeding by the time we reach the med bay.

                When I turn back to the papers, I curse under my breath. I can only be glad that he is still unconscious, so I won’t have to irritate his already painful ribs with this while he’s awake. I peel the adhesive away as gently as I can, but it still leaves a red and irritated line across his chest, looking startlingly bright on the places that his skin is pale and blending in other places with the dark bruising already there. I toss the papers onto the bay floor and make a mental note to come back for them later.

                At this point, I see his eyelids flicker again and have the sudden thought that maybe he isn’t unconscious. It’s a horrific idea, to be trapped and awake inside a living coffin for nearly five full days. But I find myself murmuring, “You’re going to be okay,” in a voice that I hope sounds confident and self-assured. He doesn’t respond.

                I try to be gentle as I pull him out of the seat, but he’s dead weight. A solid lump of cold, lifeless flesh. I pull one of his arms over my shoulder and slip my other arm around his hips. I try, as best I can, not to put any strain on his already-damaged ribcage. I stumble as I pull him out, wishing that I could just pull him over my shoulder, but with his injuries I don’t dare. I have a good few inches of height on him, but he’s muscular and compact. He is heavier than I expect, although I note that he is lighter than he probably had been when he’d been put in the pod. Five days without food, even in an EC, will cause anyone to drop weight.

                After a moment of struggling to half-drag him, I give up and move my arm behind his knees, lifting him in a bridal-carry and pulling him close to me. His skin feels like ice against mine, and I am only calmed by the slow rise and fall of his chest. Up close, as I stagger toward the medbay just off of the main door for the cargo bay, I realize just how young he looks. Mid twenties at best, and despite his gaunt face and damaged body. I’d hoped for someone a little older, who knew the ins and outs of this situation. It is hard to tell how much information this man would be able to give me. If he even survives his recovery.

                The med-bay is one of the most expensive parts of my ship. It goes far beyond the normal first-aid kit and a bed that most private ships are stocked with. It is one thing that I’d specifically asked Mari for, and she’d spared no expense getting me every modern medical instrument that could possibly be of use to me. It has three beds, instead of the standard one, and they are each multi-function units. I lay him down gently and cue the mattress to heat beneath him, just enough to help the warming process. Too much heat could put him into shock, but too little and he could slip away. His body breaks out in small shivers, which will only get worse as he returns to normal temperature, but I know that it’s a good sign.

                After a moment of hesitation, I strap his wrists and ankles to the bed. Bedrails have little purpose in space, where gravity is a fallible and capricious luxury. They serve the dual purpose of keeping him from falling out of the bed when the tremors overcome him and of keeping him secure if he happens to wake. The straps are fairly long and wrap up from the underside of the bed, so the occupant still has a few inches of movement despite being restrained.

                The bed also has a scanner mounted above it, and as soon as he is fastened down I start a full scan. It will tell me if there is any internal bleeding, collapsed lungs, broken bones, or almost anything that would require that I seek medical help. Not that I have any idea what I will do if that’s the case.

                With the scan running, I set him up for an intravenous drip. It’s a traditional I.V., not the injection system that the EC runs, and I am happy just to deal with a needle and not the puncture into his vein that I’d have to make for a forced fluid I.V. It is the first time I’d been grateful that this ship maintained full earth gravity – traditional I.V.s couldn’t function in zero gravity. I swab the crook of his elbow and pop a vein with practiced ease. This particular maneuver had been drilled into me during my medical lessons. My instructor seemed to believe that there was practically nothing that couldn’t be cured with an I.V. drip.

                As I slip the needle into his vein and tape it down, I feel the muscles twitch beneath my fingers, more of a reaction than I am expecting at this stage. It provokes my suspicion once again that he might not be as unconscious as I would like. I take a sample of blood from the line before attaching the drip, just to check what is running through his veins. Other than checking for a sedative, I also want to run a scan for diseases. I like to think that they would only sell me a healthy person, but given his current condition I have my doubts.

                After a moment of thought, I also slip a respiratory mask over his face and watch as his breath began to make a steady fog in the clear plastic. It won’t hurt to give him extra oxygen, and I can give him an antibiotic mist that will hopefully stave off any respiratory problems. Infections in the trachea or lungs are a fairly common problem after prolonged stays in an Emergency Capsule.

                With him finally settled, I pause for a moment. I want to get a good view of my first slave, of the man whose life is in my hands. It… isn’t a good start.

 


	4. Better A Whore Than A Killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to KosetteCloud for the awesome beta! I haven't heard from her in a while, but I wish her all the best!
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, comments are appreciated!

Chapter 04 – Zeke

 

                With all the first-aid that I’m capable of accomplished, I take a moment to glance him over and catalogue his injuries. The most obvious are the black eyes and a gash over his cheekbone. Punched in the face, then, multiple times. If it were an option, I would probably want to monitor him for a concussion, but considering how much time he spent unconscious in an EC, there’s really no point in keeping him awake now.

                Moving down his body, I find various bruises all along his arms and legs, some the size of fists and some the size of boots. The bruising on his torso overlaps too much to tell what the individual impacts might have been, but I’d guess on a mixture of both. The way the bruises warp around one side more than the other and wrap around to his back tell me that he fell to the ground and they kicked him while he was down. There’s enough bruising on his chest, though, for me to think that someone might have held him while someone else punched him, as well. He’s very lucky not to have any broken ribs. It’s bad enough that his upper body is almost entirely covered in dark purple bruising.

                His knees are scraped, but his feet are unharmed, so I have to assume the he was at least wearing some kind of footwear at the time. Most likely, he’d fallen to his knees and ripped through his pants while scrambling, but some kind of boots had protected his feet and ankles. His hands are scraped raw, though, and I have to imagine that he scrambled around in some kind of gravel to get them to look like that.

                As a final note, I take stock of the scars that scatter across his body. They’re mostly knife wounds, slashes along his arms and the outside of his thighs. Combat scars, mostly likely, considering how scattered and random they are. Different levels of healing indicated years between incidents. A final group of scarring, a set of spiderweb-like lines at his hip, tell me that he’d been hit with a pulse rifle at some point. I’m not terribly surprised by that either. Projectile weapons are outlawed in space, where they could easily puncture a hull and kill everyone onboard of a craft or the outer portions of a Satellite. A weapon that throws a sonic pulse, however, is far more legal and just as likely to kill in close quarters. And it rarely destabilizes a spaceship.

                Given the catalogue of injuries I’d found, there is no way he should be regaining any sort of consciousness. The physical scans confirm my suspicion of cracked ribs and a lot of deep tissue bruising, but nothing that would require hospitalization. The blood scans, however, reveal all the normal toxic buildup from an EC except for high levels of sedatives. The scans show very low, almost non-existent levels of tranquilizers, not enough for sedation and not nearly enough to keep him under while he recovers. He also shows trace amounts of several drugs that I’ve never heard of, and I send a copy of the scan to Mari to see what she can do with it.

                Returning to normal after a stay in an EC is an extremely painful process. As the body warms and blood flow increases, the muscle system starts to cramp. I’ve heard it compared to a full-body Charlie-horse, and it goes on for several hours. Most hospitals stop just short of a coma when sedating patients coming out of emergency space travel. As a precaution, I decide to give him an extra dose of sedative to help keep him under until the worst of his recovery is over. As I inject the sedative into the I.V. line, he confirms my suspicion that he’s awake by feebly trying to jerk his arm away.

                I grab a penlight and slide a chair next to the bed. I cup his face and gently pulled one eye open, shine a light at it and watch the pupil dilate. He must decide that his charade is over, because the other eye opens on its own, and they both fix on my face. I return his gaze and give myself a moment to take in his appearance. I’m not surprised to see steel gray eyes staring at me. Clones have come a long way since their development nearly a hundred years ago and now have the same rights as any normal person. Like everything, that doesn’t stop injustices from happening, and clones are particularly susceptible targets.

                Clones are born as infants after being created in labs and incubated in glass tubes. They differ from normal children and even from bio-infants (a child born from two parenting DNAs fused in a lab and artificially incubated) in that their genetics are artificially mapped instead of randomly designed based on two parenting contributors. This genetic mapping can create a very specific physical form, but it causes two side effects- firstly, it invariably cases gray eyes, and secondly, it tends to cause a reduction of melanin in later generations of clones. As mapping DNA is a costly and time-consuming process, the same genetic map tends to be reused several times, creating hundreds of identical clones. A first generation clone might have gray eyes where his race would give him brown. A second or third generation clone – where the same DNA map is used – would have lighter skin and hair, until they inevitably had light gray eyes, pale skin, and nearly white-blonde hair. And yet the man before me is almost certainly a first-generation clone.

                And that’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? To simply stumble upon a first-generation clone for my first slave? It’s so improbable that is borders on suspicious. But I don’t know enough about this situation to guarantee that this is a trap, and I’m forced to play dumb even if it is. His reactions, at least, seem genuine.

                “Can you hear me?” I ask. A nod is all the response I get, but his eyes hold steady on my face. They are larger than I expect, and I’m not sure if the feature speaks of a mixed racial heritage or a specific genetic manipulation. There seems to be intelligence in his eyes, although his expression certainly isn’t giving me any clues. His face remains cold and passive, hardly different than when he’d been asleep. I wonder if he’d been faking unconsciousness all along, or simply too ill to get my attention.

                “Do you know where you are?” I ask him, and he shakes his head.

                “You’re in my ship, just outside of Satellite 15. It’s day 279 of the 159th year.”

                I let him take that in for a moment, watch his eyes blink slowly shut and then back open. I’d hoped that he would ask a question, but he remains silent.

                “Do you…” I pause, wondering if he can speak, wondering how damaged his throat is, and then ask, “What can I call you?”

                He ponders that for several moments longer than I expect, but eventually rasps, “Zero,” which I can only assume is his name.

                “I’m Zeke. Ezekiel Price,” I offer. “Do you know why you’re here?”

                “You bought me. I’m your asset,” he replies in that same gravely, injured voice. His answer is quicker this time, so he’s either becoming more lucid or that was an easier question.

                I’m desperate to ask him more questions, to get more information about what I’ve gotten myself into, or to at least get a start on the mission that will encompass my life for the next year. But his eyelids are drooping, and I can tell that he is fighting the sedative I’d given him along with his body’s own demands. It would be cruel to force him to stay awake, and I don’t want to start out relationship out in that manner. So I hold my questions, and tell him, “Get some sleep. I’ve given you enough sedative that you should be able to sleep through the worst of your recovery. In a few hours, when you wake up, I’ll have questions for you.” And then I leave.

                There’s not much for me to do while he’s out. I expect it to take a few hours for the sedative to make its way through his system, so I fill my time by sending a request to Mari for a face-to-face conversation. I had grabbed the packet of papers from the docking bay floor on my way, so I peruse them as I wait for Mari to respond. The first page contains only twelve numbers, with no explanation. The following pages contain words, but no seals or company names that I might use to track the documents back to an originator. The second page reads:

_Thank you for purchasing the I9-5197 chip. We hope you are happy with your product. To activate this chip, simply repeat the twelve digit code within hearing distance of the asset. The chip will then be linked to your voice alone. You must name your asset immediately after activating the chip, in order to keep multiple chips from becoming confused if you own more than one asset. The chip will fire at discipline level 10 during activation for ten seconds. You may name your asset once the activation process has been completed. Once the asset has been named, please choose and verbally issue a twelve digit number code that you have selected. This code will enable you to transfer the ownership of the asset._

_Once linked to your voice, the chip will fire by verbally issuing commands, regardless of the state of the asset. You must say the name of the asset before the command. The chips are programmed to respond to the following commands._

_Discipline Level One Through Ten_

_Visual Deactivation_

_Auditory Deactivation_

_Oral Deactivation_

_Mobile Deactivation_

_Sensory Deactivation_

_Asset Cancellation_

_A command of Asset Cancellation will permanently destroy both the chip and the asset. If the asset is lost, you may contact the issuing company to locate and retrieve the chip. Please be aware that repeated use of the chip for discipline may result in permanent damage to the asset._

_Assets are categorized in five categories based on their skills and background; Domestic , Pleasure, Scholar, Combat, and Covert. There is a fee to change an asset’s category._

_Information on the asset’s background is available for all purchasers and will follow this packet._

                I skim the following pages. They include information on Zero, both as an “asset” or slave and as a citizen. I have to appreciate how the paperwork avoids implying in any way that the asset would be a human being. It could be a loop-hole, that this device is not meant for use on a human and that an “asset” could be anything - an animal of some kind. It’s the kind of legal trap that can be difficult to wade through, especially without knowing what company is selling this item and which satellite the company is based on. Some of the less-reputable satellites won’t think twice about allowing this business to continue creating their chips, as long as the proper officials get their cut of the sales.

                Zero’s asset information lists him as a combat asset and gives him an extensive list of skills including several fighting styles, proficiency in multiple weapons, and the ability to pilot most kinds of ships and aircrafts, along with several kinds of land vehicles. His paperwork makes him seem like a one-man army, and I have to wonder how he ended up in my care and in such poor condition.

                His official paperwork lists him as “Hideki Kuji” and looks so crisp and clean that I could probably wipe my hand across it and smear the ink. I can’t help but doubt its authenticity. It lists his age as 26, which seems fairly probable, and includes several licenses to operate space, air, and land vehicles. I doubt that the licenses are legitimate, but I’m fairly certain that he has the skills that they imply.

                At that point, Mari pings my comms, and I open a channel for her. I don’t mince words about the state of my newest acquisition, and Mari listens carefully and only makes a few, short inquiries about his health.

                “I think you’ve done what you can do,” she admits. She looks a little worn, still in her flannel nightgown, her dark hair parted and braided for bed. There is entirely too much care on her face, but that has always been her biggest problem. When Mari takes up a cause, she always takes it to heart. That’s why she still works part-time for the Department, even though she took early retirement after a mission that had left her physically and mentally destroyed. Her ability to come back from that kind of trauma and her understanding of it are the main reasons I’m so pleased to be working with her.

                “Why would they send me this half-dead slave?” I find myself asking. “It’s not like he was… cheap,” I say, and frown at the word. I don’t like to put a price on human life. Obviously, it isn’t a problem that everyone shares.

                “My contact implied that first-time owners usually get over-zealous. He even told me specifically where to drop the body off if the slave died, and that you could purchase another slave afterwards.”

                “So they thought he was going to die?” I ask, but Mari bites her lip and shakes her head. She always does that when she’s about to say something that I won’t like.

                “Zeke, I think they intended for you to kill him.”

                The admission shouldn’t shock me, but it still leaves me stunned. The cruelty of shoving him in a pod and setting him adrift is bad enough, but sending him through that to die? It’s inhumane.

                “What should I do for him?”

                “He’s yours,” she shrugs. “I think you’re overthinking this. Do whatever you want. Even if that’s to be kind or gentle, just say it’s your kink.”

                And that makes sense, in a twisted sort of way. He’s mine. I paid for him. I should be able to treat him however I see fit. But that seems almost too easy.

                “Won’t it arouse suspicion? Aren’t there easier ways to get a boyfriend or a pet? Because that’s how I’d be treating him.”

                Mari sighs and rubs her head, then says, “You’ll have to feel it out. I’ve made you an appointment with a trainer who will be meeting you outside of Satellite 22 in two weeks. He’s apparently one of the few ‘asset merchants’ that are approved by the Leash, so you might be able to buy another slave or sell this one.” And that’s a thought that I’m not ready to contemplate, so I let it pass without comment. “He was pretty vague about everything, so you’ll need to see what information you can get. Technically, he’s coming to give you technical advice for the chip you purchased.”

                “The chip that’s in that boy’s head?”

                “That’s the one,” she says, and gives me a wan smile. “You’ll have to see what he says. They already know that you’re inexperienced. They won’t be suspicious if you ask questions.”

                “I suppose not,” I agree.

                We talk for a bit longer, and then I bid her goodnight and let her get to sleep. It’s still early by Galactic Standard Time, but I have no idea what hours Mari is keeping now. Time is a relative concept anyway. With nothing left to occupy my except endless mission briefs, I wander back to the medical room, intent on checking in on my new captive.

                When I open the medbay door, the first thing I notice is that he’s gone. The second, is that he hasn’t gotten far. He isn’t on the bed anymore, but the IV is still attached to his arm, and I can see it snaking down behind the bed that he’d been laying on. I enter the room cautiously, circling the bed with a wide berth. Despite being recently recovered, I don’t want to underestimate the other man. I don’t know what kind of training or skills he has – or, rather, I’m well aware that he might have skills that far outweigh mine in physical combat. I had thought that he was too ill to move, and I hadn’t expected him to be able to get out of the restraints. It poses an uncomfortable amount of questions about his capabilities.

                I kneel a few feet away from him. His wary gray eyes track me, follow my movements, but he holds his ground.

                “I want to move you back to the bed,” I tell him, and make an effort to keep my voice quiet but firm. After a moment, I approach him. He flinches, but doesn’t move to attack me.

                When I kneel beside him, he says softly, “I’d really prefer that you end it now.” His voice is raspy and cracked, his larynx still sore from his time adrift, but his words are firm and clear.

                “What do you think is going to happen to you?” I question. He turns his eyes away and refuses to answer. I give him time, but he makes no indications that he will respond. Eventually, I reach out and grasp his arm. From close range, I can tell that his breathing is shallow, his pulse is high, and his body is showing signs of exhaustion.

                I expect him to bolt, but he doesn’t fight me as I lift him and help him settle back on the bed. As I touch him, I can feel the way his form shakes, can feel the tremors as his body continues to return to its normal temperature. I check his IV as he lies back, deciding to wait until the fluids have finished to offer him a shower. He is shivering still, and I can tell that he is making an effort not to let his teeth chatter. Still, his hands settle lax at his sides, and he doesn’t make any move to curl up or cover himself. I pull the blanket over top of him, but I leave the breathing mask off. Even the fluids are probably overkill. He isn’t showing any signs of distress. But, then again, I doubt that I can trust his self-preservation instincts. He doesn’t seem to have any.

                His eyes droop with exhaustion, and I can tell that he’s fighting sleep. In another moment, I decide, I’ll let him rest. Until then, I need to try to get some information, to get a better handle on what I’ve gotten myself into. I pull up a rolling chair and sit next to him. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at me. His face looks weary and his eyes stare tiredly ahead.

                “I suppose this isn’t strange for you,” I say softly. He doesn’t respond, but his eyes shift slowly toward me. “You’ve had plenty of masters. On the other hand, I’ve never had a slave. I’m not sure what I should do, or what I’m meant to do with you. What did you do for your previous owners?”

                His eyes go flat and cold, and he glares at me. It’s the first emotion I’ve seen from him.

                “I won’t kill for you. I’m done with that. I’m useless. So get it over with, and finish me now.”

                So they’d given me a broken soldier, and expected me to end him. I can see the traces of a soldier in him now, in the way he holds himself, in the calluses on his hands. It isn’t an easy puzzle that has landed in my lap. It would be far better for my cover to kill him and buy a replacement. But I’m already growing attached, despite my better judgment. And besides… I always did like a challenge.

                “I don’t need you to kill. And I’ve no interest in killing you.”

                “Then what do you need me for?” he questions, a frown creasing his forehead. His eyes scan me, calculating.

                How to play this? I can’t risk that he might be a plant - a really good actor sent in to assess my motives. I’d played that part myself a few times. Still, I can usually spot deception, and I’m not sensing any from Zero. The bruises and his reactions scream with authenticity, but it’s too much of a risk. I’ve only known him for a couple hours, and most of that time he’d been unconscious.

                On the other hand, if I seem like too much of a threat, he might opt to take the choice out of my hands and take his own life. There’s flatness to his eyes, in the way he says that he’ll never kill again, that tells me he’ll do anything to keep that promise. I’ll have to walk a narrow tightrope until I can get him settled.

                In a way that’s a calculated aggressive move, I slide my hand along his thigh and lean over him.

                “When you’re better,” I tell him. “I’ve got far more interesting things to do with you.”

                He glares at me, his eyes taking a sharp sheen. He pushes himself up until we are nearly nose-to-nose, and it’s hard to tell if he’s trying to provoke me.

                “I’m no one’s whore,” he growls at me. I smile and shrug.

                “Better a whore than a killer.” He flinches at that, but it deflates his anger. I can see acceptance in his eyes, see that he won’t fight me. It gives me a gutted feeling. But it’s all I can do for him.

                “Sleep,” I tell him, forcing him back against the bed. “I’ll let you rest, for now.”


	5. Zero Wakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Like always, feedback is massively welcome!
> 
> This chapter is beta'd by the awesome intrepidem. She rocks!

Chapter 05 – Zero

                When I wake for the third time, I find myself alone and unrestrained. It feels like a longer amount of time has passed. I sit up and let the blanket slide to the floor. The air raises the hairs on my skin, but doesn’t make me shiver. It seems that my body has returned to a normal temperature. I stretch, feeling the way my ribs protest. They are healing, but slowly.

                I get to my feet cautiously, testing my balance against the residual effects of the drugs. I’m off. Slow. My body feels like liquid, and I stumble when I stand. I shake my head, trying to clear it. It doesn’t help.

                I shuffle out of the med bay, into the cargo hold, and use the wall to keep my balance. I glance around, spot the exit, and then push away from the wall to stumble into the main part of the ship. I can hear muffled sounds of movement. I make my way cautiously toward them, uncertain if I should approach. The fixtures around me are more similar to an apartment than a ship, and I find myself leaning against the wall for support, my fingers gliding over a smooth, wooden molding at hip-height. My footsteps don’t make a sound in the plush carpeting beneath my toes. I feel the urge to kneel down and press my fingers into it, to curl up on its softness and sleep.

                I keep walking toward the sounds until I can see the light in the doorway. The door is not the typical sliding –style fixture of a ship, but an antique, hinge-and-knob wooden door. There are wooden fixtures everywhere. They muffle the sound better than metal, but they make the entire ship seem alien to me. I have the urge to return to the comfortable metal and fluorescent lighting of the cargo bay. But the door in front of me is ajar, and I nudge it open with my foot, slide inside just enough to assess the threat.

                I find my new owner – Zeke, I remember. I pause, baffled. This man, who has enough money to purchase me and this extravagant ship, is standing in a kitchen, cooking. He stands, facing me, working at a long counter in the center of the room, with bar-style chairs along the other side. His hands chop a green vegetable with a curved-bladed knife, and behind him a pan sizzles on the stove. The scent of food reminds me that I haven’t eaten for three days prior to being jettisoned. My stomach cramps with hunger, but I know that I still had two days left before the lack of food will affect me.

                I must stare too long, because he glances up and notices me in the doorway. I have the urge to flee, but my body feels heavy and I know I won’t be able to outrun him. I hold my ground as he sees me, but he just smiles and turns back to chopping the vegetables.

                “Do you want to come have a seat?” he asks, gesturing with his knife at one of the chairs on the other side of the bar. I take it for the loosely veiled threat that it is and make my way slowly across the room to slide into the high-backed stool across from him.

                I know better than to lean against the counter. Although the impulse is there to slump over, I make myself sit straight in the chair. I rest my hands on the cool marbled stone so that he can see that I am unarmed. It is protocol when in the presence of an owner.

                “How are you feeling?” he asks me as he puts the knife aside and tosses the vegetable he’d been chopping into the pan with the rest of them. He grabs something white – I recognize it as an onion.

                “I’m 70% recovered,” I tell him. A self-assessment tells me that I would probably be at 75% if he hadn’t given me that sedative, but I don’t inform him of that.

                “Okay,” he says evenly. “But how do you feel?”

                “I…” I try, but my voice cracks and I have to pause to clear my throat. Zeke pauses in slicing the onion to fill a glass of water and set it in front of me. I make no move to reach for it.

                “Are you thirsty?” Zeke asks, and this time he is regarding me without distraction, his hands braced against the counter as he watches me.

                “Yes,” I tell him, feeling my throat scrape as I speak.

                “Will you drink that without my permission?” he asks, like I’m new to this.

                “No.”

                “Drink. You have my permission,” he says, and resumes his cutting as I reach for the glass and greedily drink. When I finish, he says, “You know that I haven’t activated your chip yet. Why do you need my permission?”

                It isn’t a yes or no question. That would be too easy. And, logically, I know that _Because you’re my owner_ isn’t a realistic answer either. I’m not sure why he hasn’t activated my chip – whether he just hasn’t had time yet or if it is part of these games he seems to be playing – but I know that he doesn’t have any physical power over me without it. Still, my options are slim. I can treat him like an owner, or I can rebel and be killed or sent back. Either way is death.

                “You plan on activating my chip,” I tell him. “You wouldn’t have put so much effort into reviving me if you were planning on killing me soon.”

                “Why would you let me activate it?” And that implies that I can stop him, which is something I’d never contemplated before. “Why wouldn’t you kill me before I got the chance?” he asks. It’s a very strange test, to question me like this. I can’t quite decipher what he is looking for, so I have to go with honesty instead of giving him the answer he wants.

                “I could kill you,” I say, which he already knows if he’s read my paperwork, “and it wouldn’t matter if you’d activated the chip. I’d simply have to wait for a weak moment and surprise you. The chip doesn’t monitor my actions, it just responds to your commands. But if I kill you, I’ll be reclaimed by the company, and they’ll either kill me or discipline me and sell me to another owner, who will likely fight me to death.” It won’t be a lot of fights. I’ve already decided that I’m done with that. I’ll let them kill me.

                “And out of the three options – death, combat, or staying with me – you’d prefer to be my… asset?”

                “I think that you’ll be more easily convinced to kill me than the company.” I don’t add that the company has ways of making assets functional, of forcing them to cooperate, that I doubt this owner is capable of. He doesn’t strike me as the sort to engage in prolonged torture, but then it is difficult to tell what an owner will enjoy.

                “Oh,” he says softly, and I can tell that it isn’t the answer he’d been hoping for. “I don’t plan on killing you.”

                “I won’t kill for you. And I’m useless for anything else. You won’t have any reason to keep me.”

                “Let me worry about that,” he says, and the onion is fully chopped so it goes into the pan with the peppers. He puts the knife and the cuttingboard in the sink. “I plan to activate your chip after we eat.”

                “If you feed me before the activation process, I’m likely to vomit.”

                “The instructions… never mind. I suppose we’ll have to do it now, then.” He turns and does something to the pan that makes it stop sizzling so loudly. I take it as my cue to prepare. I get up quietly and lay on the floor, feel the cool tiles against my back, try to breathe evenly.

                “What are you doing?” he asks as he comes around to kneel beside me. Does he think that he has to be so close for the activation to work? I can’t find any other reason for him to come to the floor with me.

                “I’m going to lose control of my muscle functions.”

                “Oh. Right. Do you need anything?” he asks. I shake my head. Restraints and gags are usually used for this, but I am accustomed to pain. Asking for them would be admitting weakness. He rises and steps out of the room then, and I take a moment to breathe deeply and prepare. It isn’t a moment that I need, but it is one that I will use if given. When he returns, there are papers in his hands and he sits cross-legged by my head.

                “I’m going to read your activation code, and then there will be ten seconds of pain. When that’s done, I’ll name you and give you a new code. Do you understand? When that’s finished, I’ll let you rest, and then I’ll give you dinner.”

                I nod because I can tell that he wants me to. It is my only reaction. I already know what the chip has in store for me. I try to breathe evenly as he starts reading the code to me. By the third digit, I have tensed the muscles in my arms and legs. By the eighth, my breathing is shallow, over-oxygenating my blood. At ten, I clench my fists, preparing for the pain. Eleven makes me flinch. I don’t hear the twelfth digit.

                Pain rips through me. It starts as a searing behind my eyes, then floods my system until it is all that exists. The knowledge that it is to be short-lived is no comfort. Time has no meaning. If I thought it would help, I would beg. Luckily, my jaws are clenched too tightly for words, and the only sound I give is a pained wheeze.

                Pain shoots down every limb, in every direction. I can feel my body shaking, can feel my back arch and drop me against the tiled floor, but it feels far away, like it is someone else’s body. All that is real to me is the pain. I can hear myself gasping, can feel the way I suck in gulping breaths through my clenched teeth, but somehow the oxygen can’t get into my system. Someone is counting, and the voice seems even further away from my body, but I try to pay attention. I can’t make out the numbers, can’t remember what they might mean. My heart is pounding in my chest, my limbs flail and crack against the floor. The jolts keep coming, a never-ending stream of all-consuming pain.

                And then, as suddenly as it takes me, it drops me.                

                I find myself panting and sweating on the floor, my limbs splayed awkwardly, my pulse pounding. I unclench my jaw with some difficulty, take a gasping breath in through my mouth, and try to slow the pace of my heart. My stomach is queasy and I gag once, but the water stays put even though it sloshes uncomfortably.

                “Zero,” I hear, followed by a twelve-digit number code. I don’t try to memorize it. I already know that it doesn’t matter whether or not I remember the code. The chip in my head doesn’t need my brain, just my auditory systems.

                “Are you going to be okay?”

                “Yes,” I tell him, then follow with, “I’m at 65% capabilities. I should recover 5% within ten minutes.”

                He makes a noise. It might be a laugh, but he chokes it off and runs a hand across his face. He looks unsettled. I’m pretty sure it was his first time seeing level ten discipline. It tends to rattle more inexperienced owners. Or so I’ve been told.

                I make a move to sit up and feel my head tilt dizzily as Zeke puts a hand on my shoulder.

                “Go slow,” he cautions, and the hand moves to my back to support me. “That was a lot of shock to your system.”

                I say nothing, just let him guide me back to the chair. I sit heavily, bring my hands up to the edge of the counter and grip for balance. The world spins, and all I can do is hang on. By the time it settles, Zeke has placed two plates on the counter, then fills them both with roasted chicken and the vegetables and some kind of potato dish. Two smaller plates appear beside those, each with two slices of fresh-cut bread. My glass of water has been refilled, and another appears on the other side of the counter.

                I sit quietly, try to still my spinning head and calm my churning stomach. My limbs feel leaden, and there is a lingering pain behind my eyes. I want to eat and sleep, in that order. But I very rarely get what I want.

                “I’ll assume that you won’t eat without my permission either. So let me give you blanket permission for the future. Unless I say otherwise, you are not to go hungry. There will always be food here, and I want you to get something if you’re hungry. If we aren’t here, you are to tell me if you feel hungry, thirsty, or ill. Is that understood?” he asks, his voice taking a commanding tone that I haven’t heard before. I nod. “Repeat it to me,” he demands.

                “I will not go hungry. I will let you know if I am hungry, thirsty, or ill,” I repeat. The other order, to take whatever I want from the kitchen, is baffling to me. I can’t understand – does he want me to steal from him? Does he not plan to feed me at regular intervals? I don’t need to be fed often. Every few days is enough as long as I can get enough calories from those sporadic meals.

                “Very good,” Zeke praises, unnecessarily. “Now, eat your dinner. Then we’ll retire. I’ve had quite enough for tonight.” He gestures to the plate, and it is fairly evident that he’s made a plate for me. It’s puzzling, but I’m not stupid. I can read context clues. I pick up a fork, cut a piece of chicken, and hesitate, my hand poised above the plate.

                “I don’t… I usually just eat nutrient bars and space rations,” I tell him. “I don’t need more than that.”

                Zeke pulls a face. “Starving dogs need more food than that. That is sawdust with vitamins. I can get you nutrient bars, but I’d prefer to give you protein supplements and vitamins. Either way, I still expect you to eat real food.”

                I have the urge to argue that space rations are real food – carefully prepackaged, freeze-dried food – but I quickly quash the impulse. Arguing with an owner on the first night isn’t a good tactical maneuver. Instead, I spear a piece of chicken and eat it, hardly giving myself time to taste it. My stomach churns, and I grab a piece of bread, hoping the carbs will calm it.

                “Do you want some tea?” Zeke asks. “It might settle your stomach.”

                I have no idea how to respond to that – I know in a distant way that tea is a brewed, plant-based drink that had been popular on earth, had been hailed as a cure-all, and is now a popular drink among the elite – so I shrug. Zeke takes the motion as positive response, and rises to make me some. I sit motionless, watch him. He gives no signs to what I should be doing, what he wants from me, or what reason he has to treat me like this. By the time he returns with a heated cup of the brown liquid, my head is pounding with all the possibilities for his behavior.

                “It’s hot,” he cautions, and I am too well-trained to roll my eyes, but if the steam hadn’t told me that, then the fact that I’d watched him put the mug in the microwave probably would have. Maybe he actually does think that I’m stupid.

                I take the mug – ceramic, with an etched design around the rim – and sip slowly. The taste is light and sweet, not particularly appealing to me, but I feel my stomach calm. Zeke starts in on his food, and I begin working methodically through my own plate, starting with the food closest to me and eating clockwise around the plate.

The food is rich and settles heavily in my stomach, but none of the queasiness returns. When I reach the 3 o’clock mark, I find that the hand holding my fork is shaking just slightly. My eyes are drooping, and my body feels leaden. I try to raise my fork again, but find it nearly impossible.

                “Did you put something in the food?” I wonder out loud. There is nothing I can do if he did, but it would be another odd behavior. My owner shakes his head.

                “You’re just feeling the natural effects of exhaustion and a full stomach,” he tells me. He is smiling, and I can’t understand why. He rises after a moment and comes around to my side of the table, helps me get to my feet. I’m hoping that he’ll take me to the cell or pen where I’d be kept, but he takes me instead to a bedroom. His, I assume from the personal items I can see. I struggle to rouse myself. If he wants me to guard his room, I’ll need to be awake and aware. If he wants me for sex… well, I probably won’t be able to sleep through it no matter how much I want to.

                He moves me to sit on the bed, and I am at the point of feeling unsteady on my feet, so I sit heavily as he moves away. There is a door to an adjacent bathroom, and I watch him enter through that door, turn on the shower. I want to protest when he moves to lead me inside. The feel of being nearly frozen is still in my body, and it wants nothing to do with the ice-cold spray of a shower. But I don’t fight him as he leads me into the room, takes his own clothes off, and pushes me into the shower stall.

                The water is warm and cascades in waves over me. It is a luxury that I’ve never felt before, and I can’t bring myself to tell my new owner that this is unnecessary, that I don’t need hot water to be clean. I just stand and let the warmth chase away any remembrances I have of the icy grip of space.

                I flinch when Zeke touches me, probably just as much because of his nudity and proximity as because of my own distraction. He apologizes softly, which is ridiculous, and moves to wash me, which is even more ridiculous. I haven’t been washed since I was a child, possibly not even then. But I stay silent and let him do as he pleases. There is no point in fighting him over a trivial matter like this. I let him wash me, watch as he lathers a rag with pleasantly scented soap, hold still as he runs it over my shoulders and down my sides. I wait every moment for the touch to turn sexual, but it never does. He washes my arms and legs with gentle professionalism, never rough or lingering. I stay completely still, and even when the rag in his hands dips below my waist and washes my genitals, I don’t flinch or lash out.

                By the time he pushes me under the spray to rinse off, I am too tired to be confused. I let him lead me out, and am pleased that he at least hands me my own towel to dry off. Then he leads me back into the bedroom, and this time he does turn down the covers of the bed and gestures for me to slide in.

                And this, at least, is something of a relief. Finally, a situation I can understand. Whatever his motive was for his behavior all afternoon, now he’d take what he wants from me. Once he has it, we can stop all this confusing behavior.

                But Zeke slips into a pair of cotton pants and slides into the bed on the other side, leaving several inches of room between us. I am so frustrated and so relieved that I almost growl. I am so tired. I just want to sleep.

                “What are we doing?” I snarl, “What do you want with me?”

                Zeke smiles in a patient sort of way. It’s infuriating.

                “You’ve already said that you’re a killer who won’t kill any more. So I’m making you something else,” he tells me. He’s up on one elbow, leaning over me, while I lay flat on the bed. I’d rather be sitting or standing, but I’m just too exhausted to move without a direct order. “I’m going to train you to be my lover. Sleeping next to me is the first step. Everything else will come later. Don’t worry, we’ll go slowly. I’ll help you. I won’t ask more than you can do, won’t punish you for things you don’t understand. You aren’t trained for pleasure, so I have a blank canvas to start from.” His hand comes up and cups my face, strokes his thumb along my cheek. I have the unfathomable urge to lean into the touch, but hold myself in check. “I’ll help you. It’s going to be okay.”

                And something, maybe his words or the simple touch of his hand, is strangely soothing as I drift to sleep.


	6. Breakfast and Backgrounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the love to intrepidem for looking this chapter over for me. Could she possibly be the best beta ever? Oh yes. I think so.

Chapter 06 - Zeke

               When I wake the next morning, I take a moment to contemplate the man in my bed. In sleep, Zero looks much younger; his features are more relaxed and open. It is almost hard to imagine those same cold, calculating eyes in the serene face before me. I try not to think about the monumental task I have taken on with him – not just fixing a broken soldier, but turning a killing machine into a passionate lover. What sounded like a good idea the night before suddenly seems like adding a barrel of problems to the heaping pile I’ve already taken on.

                Damn, but he’s beautiful. It is more evident now that exhaustion and starvation aren’t pinching his features in pain. His eyes are still bruised, but healing remarkably quickly. The rest of his face is flawless, with high, chiseled cheekbones and narrow, arching eyebrows. His nose is surprisingly straight for someone who has obviously been in many fights, and his lips are thin but an appealing shade of pink against his olive skin. Combined with his thick, black hair and his lean, muscular body, he looks more like a model than a fighter.

                He kicked the blanket off sometime in the night, and the profile of his body is highlighted against the light sheets. He is lying on his right side, so the scars on his hip are clearly visible: white lines etched like cracked glass just under his skin. Other, more jagged scars litter his body, many partially obscured by his position, others crisscrossing along his form. Some scars the same bright white as the one on his hip, while others have pinkened or faded to a light tan. Instead of marring his form, as it might have if his skin and physique weren’t so flawless, it makes him look dangerous. It stirs something in me, something that wants to lay my palm across his hip and stroke up his side, feel the way his skin flows beneath my fingers.

                I slip out of the bed quickly, with Zero doing little more than stirring beside me. I’m not surprised. He’d been exhausted the night before, almost falling over on his feet. Despite his own assurances that he was “at 70% capabilities” it had looked like he was quickly nearing a collapse.

                I go to the cockpit first to check my messages. The trainer that Mari contacted has sent me an email to confirm that he will meet me outside of Satellite 22. I charter a course in that direction, and think that I should probably stop off at Satellite 19, to get some clothes for Zero. Then I start a simple breakfast before checking on Zero again.

                I find Zero awake, sitting in the bed, his eyes alert and glued to the door as I enter. I stall in the doorway, not really sure how to approach him now that he is alert and aware, unlike last night. He seems uncomfortable with sitting in my presence. He tenses and pulls his legs so that he is kneeling, but makes no move to stand.

                “Good morning,” I tell him. It is an old greeting, one that hails back to the early days on earth when time was measured by the rise and fall of the sun. It is still a common greeting, and is usually met with, “Good morning to you,” or “I have rested well,” or at least “Thank you.” Zero responds with a nod. “We’ll have to work on your repertoire,” I mutter, and although I know that Zero has heard it, he doesn’t respond. Finally, I ask, “Would you like breakfast?”

                This prompts the verbal response of, “Yes,” which is the most I’ve gotten out of him so far, so I count it as a win. Still, something seems off. He is practically vibrating with unease.

                “Is there a reason you’re still in the bed?” I wonder.

                “You haven’t told me what to do,” he responds, his voice flat, his eyes flicking to my face and then away again.

                “And if I say nothing?”

                “Then I will remain here.”

                Ah. Obviously. Because a well-trained slave certainly shouldn’t be independent enough to get his own food without orders.

                “Unless you are told otherwise, you are not confined anywhere. You are free to roam the ship. Now, come and get breakfast.”

                Zero gives me a puzzled look, but rises and follows me. It is still baffling to me, how someone so well-trained and obedient could be considered a sub-value slave. On the other hand, I’m not asking him to do anything so objectionable or horrifying that he would feel the need to rebel. Maybe that’s the difference.

                We eat in silence because I know I’ll have to pry conversation out of Zero with a crowbar, and I just don’t feel up to it before my morning coffee. I’d made Zero four eggs over-easy with whole grain toast and orange juice. I’d made a green pepper and onion omelet for myself. There is a nook just off of the kitchen with a table and six chairs, and I set the food there instead of at the bar. Zero sits when instructed to, but not before.

                “Can you cook?” I ask him at one point, because it dawns on me that, as a master, I’m probably not supposed to be cooking all the meals. Zero pauses in his methodical eating (around the plate, clockwise, starting from the bottom) to give me a guarded expression.

                “It was not part of my training, but I understand the mechanics of it.”

                So that’s a, “No, but I’m willing to try,” in Zero-speak. I can’t say that I’m surprised. From our conversation last night, I’d gathered that his diet until now had consisted of the human equivalent of dog food, something that required no skill in cooking but a fair amount of skill in actually keeping down. I’d only been forced to actually eat space rations once, on an undercover assignment where I’d played a young junky to get intel on a drug ring. They’d suspected me, and I’d spent a week in a freight ship container with a bug-out bag waiting for rescue. It had been three days before I’d tried to eat one of the sealed meals, and four before I’d managed to keep one down.

                “I’ll assume you can understand the mechanics of doing the dishes,” I say as I rise and place my empty plate in the sink and refill my coffee. When I look back, Zero has already risen, and it takes a moment for me to realize that he would start cleaning up now, despite his half-eaten food.

                “Finish your breakfast,” I correct gently. “Then wash, dry, and put away all of the dishes,” I instruct more carefully. Our dishes from the previous night are in the sink as well, along with the cooking wares that I’d used to prepare the food. There is, of course, an automatic dishwashing unit under the cabinetry, and I don’t have any problems with using it. Still, I feel it might be a good idea to give Zero something to do with his hands if I want to have a relaxed conversation with him.

                “Yes, master,” Zero acknowledges, and returns to his seat. I let him finish the meal in silence, sipping my coffee quietly until he clears his plate and rises to go to the sink.

                “I’ve might stop at Satellite 19,” I offer in the way of conversation, hoping to draw him out. “Would you like me to buy you some clothes?”

                “It would be easier to conceal a weapon if I were dressed,” he answers, as though that’s the only reason people ever wore clothes. Maybe it is the only reason he does. I almost sigh. Apparently gentle coaxing isn’t going to get him to open up to me.

                “I want you to tell me about your life before you came to me,” I tell him, my voice neutral but firm. I can hear the sound of running water behind me, the clack of dishes being jostled. I don’t turn to look at him.

                “What do you want to know?” comes his response, immediate and unhesitant. However uncomfortable my treatment makes him, apparently interrogation is more familiar and welcome. It paints a picture of Zero’s past that is unpleasant but unsurprising.

                “Can you tell me about your childhood?”

                “I don’t understand. What do you want to know?”

                “Where were you raised? Where did you come from?”

                “I was created in a lab tethered to Satellite 30,” he says, and it actually isn’t as surprising as it should be. Satellite 30 is one of the less reputable research satellites. I’d been on assignment there only once, for a very brief time, when the Department had gotten a lead on corpses being sold there illegally. Of course, it isn’t illegal to sell a body, assuming the citizen had sold the rights to it when they were alive and had been allowed to finish the full span of their lives before the debt was collected. There had been concerns that these bodies had been stolen, that the citizens had been murdered, and that some of them hadn’t been dead at all when they reached their destination. All three concerns had been found valid.

                It’s hard to imagine someone being born there, although not for a lack of capacity. Satellite 30 has some of the most advanced medical equipment and researches many of the most dangerous and volatile subjects. It is, however, an inhospitable place to live. The satellite is all function, with practically no social outlets whatsoever. Only scientists and technicians live on the satellite, committing their time and their lives to their individual projects. No need has ever arisen for public utilities like schools or parks. There isn’t even a central location to congregate. For safety’s sake, the satellite is decentralized, and each individual laboratory is tethered to the main vessel using actual cables. The gravity and atmosphere fields are self-generated by each lab to keep from cross-contaminating the other sites. When I saw it for the first time, I could only think of how remarkably similar it looked to a sea urchin. It is a nearly perfect place to perform a long-term, illegal experiment. After Zero says it, I can’t understand why I hadn’t thought of it before. But clones are created as infants and had to be raised like normal children, and I have a hard time imagining that on Satellite 30.

                “How long were you there? You were born there, but you must have been raised by someone. ”

                “From birth until the age of 20. We were cared for by the technicians,” he tells me. It would have been a cold and difficult childhood, probably kept in cells and labs.

                “What about your education?” I wonder, because he seems to have fairly high intelligence, and his skills listed pilot along with other combat skills. He certainly doesn’t seem illiterate or uneducated.

                “We took part in highly monitored cyber-classes. Although we were more advanced than most of the students, it gave us the ability to interact with civilians covertly, without arousing suspicion.”

                “How many were there?” I ask. “Clones, I mean. How large was your… batch?” I say, and cringe at the derogatory word. Calling a group of clones a “batch” makes them seem like a commodity and has been considered bad taste since before clones had been recognized as free citizens, decades ago. It is, however, crudely apt when describing a group of physically identical babies being born at the same time from the same basic genetic code.

                “There were fifty,” he says, and glances over his shoulder at me. It is a high number. I try not to show my surprise on my face. Although most of the cost of creating a clone is in mapping the genetics, each child still needs the basic materials to be created, plus the cost of its own incubation tube and the months of feeding and care to be born. Not to mention the care for the children after that. It, generally, isn’t financially feasible.

                “Why so many?” I ask, and try to keep my voice light an inquisitive.

                “We were specifically designed to be superior soldiers,” he says, and that’s a little difficult to believe. I understand that Zero has faced combat situations, but his build and his height make me think that he wouldn’t be ideal in a hand-to-hand situation. “They trained us rigorously in different types of combat skills, from physical fighting to weapons, explosives, and technology. They wanted to ensure that enough of us would survive the training to reach adulthood.”

                “And did they?”

                “Yes. I don’t know exactly how many survived, but it was better than half.”

                “When did your training end? Was it when you were sold to the Leash organization?”

                “No. We weren’t originally designed to be slaves. The scientists who designed us were trying to create a perfect soldier. When we reached peak performance at 20, they attempted to copy the top five specimens.”

                “Copy?”

                “They wanted to clone us as adults, with all of our knowledge intact. They wanted to mass-produce an army within months of an order.” It’s impossible, and highly illegal to boot. A clone is created and born as a child, just like any other person. To copy an adult would turn a human into a commodity. Not to mention the implications of a ready-made army. “They weren’t successful. In order to recoup some of their losses, the scientists sold the remaining specimens to The Leash as combat slaves.”

                So, basically, Zero had been raised all his life as a machine, and has only the foggiest understanding of how normal people are supposed to live.

                “What did you do for your last owner?” I wonder, and by this time he has finished the dishes, but he doesn’t turn toward me. Instead he continues to face the sink, his fingers braced lightly against the edge of the counter. I can see the profile of his face and decide to let him stay turned away from me. Maybe it’s easier for him.

                “He was a crime boss for a syndicate on Satellite 16,” Zero tells me. Satellite 16 is a remote colony, known for drugs and violence and little more. It is one of the earliest colonies to be mostly self-sufficient in the way of food production and water recycling, and needs far fewer supplies from earth to keep running. Which is good, because few ships dare to go there. Its government and its criminals are heavily intermixed. Its primary source of trade is supposed to be machinery, but is generally drugs and weapons in exchange for luxury items, mostly to be consumed by the warring upper classes. I’ve heard that a smaller cartel had recently gained unprecedented authority over a large portion of the territory. It seems likely that this is the same boss that had owned Zero, although I can’t say for sure.

                “Mainly,” Zero explains, “I protected shipments of drugs and contraband from addicts, thieves, and other drug lords.” Which makes sense. Zero has an intense personality. I can see him being intimidating behind a weapon in a way that I can’t see now, with him naked and unarmed. “Sometimes he used me to intimidate people he was extorting money from. I was his enforcer on multiple occasions, to get money from his addicts and keep his underlings in line. I also protected his sites and investments.”

                “How long were you with him?” I wonder, and I sense Zero pause as if calculating the length in his head.

                “Nearly six years,” he tells me, and then offers, “I might have been traded sooner, but Satellite 16 was isolated, and my owner only sparsely interacted with other owners. Also, much of his operations and his infrastructure were overseen by me, and handing that responsibility to another asset would have taken a lot of effort.”

                “So what happened to bring you to me?” I wonder, because you don’t usually just walk away from that kind of life, especially if you were that crucial to the organization. Especially if you haven’t voluntarily walked into it.

                He hesitates there, and I can see that it’s obviously an uncomfortable subject for Zero.

                “The man…” he starts, and I can almost read Zero’s distaste for this person before he hesitates again and blanks his expression. “My former master had no tactical skills. He tortured and killed people who crossed him for the slightest infraction, without mercy.”

                “Do you believe in mercy?” I ask.

                “I believe it has tactical implications,” he says, which is something, I suppose, although not really what I was hoping for. “A man with power and mercy is respected and trusted, a man with power and none is feared and hated. With me as an asset, he amassed power very quickly, but he also formed enemies. In private, I tried to advise him that it would be more tactically sound to keep hostages or to use beatings as a deterrent instead of killings, but I was ignored or disciplined.”

                “Did he treat you badly?” I wonder, although in my head I had to amend it to, “Worse than the people who raised you?” because I’m not sure Zero even understands how a person should be treated. But Zero just shrugs.

                “I was mostly ignored and allowed to continue my schedule as I had on Satellite 30. On the rare occasion that I was disciplined, he used the chip, as he didn’t want people to see me with bruises and think that I might not be as strong as my owner was claiming. It was one of the few sound tactical choices he made.”

                “So what happened?” I prompt. “You show up here covered in bruises, were you overwhelmed in an attack?”

                And there he hesitates long enough that I’m not sure if he will answer at all. His hands are wrapped tightly around the counter in front of him, and I can almost feel the tension rolling off of him. Finally, he says, “These bruises came from my owner’s men when they found me. His second in command was happy enough for the promotion, but he wasn’t pleased about the mess that had been left for him, or about the fact that I and the boss’s four pleasure assets would now have to be returned to The Leash at a fraction of our value, since the boss hadn’t passed our codes on.”

                I focus, for a moment, on the fact that Zero had been reclaimed after his owner died, not killed with him. It is a bigger relief that I had expected, to know that if I die, any assets I have won’t immediately be killed with me. There are still risks, of course, and there is no guarantee that they won’t be killed, but I know they won’t be killed directly because of my actions.

I return my focus to Zero’s past. I need to understand him better, if I want to have any chance of getting him to cooperate with me.

                “So what happened to your owner?”

                “A few rival groups came together to stage a coup. My owner thought they were coming after his latest shipment of contraband, so he gave me orders to remain with the goods. He told me, specifically, not to leave unless he gave me the order himself. I believe that he planned to offer them a cut of the profits as an appeasement, but these men were after his blood. Some of them had joined the gangs just to avenge their relatives, others joined because my owner planned to kill him. Not knowing this, my owner took several men to confront the rival gangs, and was overwhelmed. I remained in the compound guarding his possessions despite several calls from underlings to aid in their battle.”

                He pauses again, looking at his knuckles in a contemplating manner. “I had hoped that they would kill me. I knew, logically, that I should disobey orders and go to the front with them. I have been trained to be smart enough to change tactics in the middle of a battle. I could have saved my owner,” he admits, “but I chose to obey orders because disobeying them would mean discipline. Although, obeying them also usually meant discipline. And also, because I wanted him to die.”

                “So why this sudden aversion to killing?” I question. Not that I want him to be a murderer, but it is something he has trained for all his life. And finally, an expression of confusion and regret flit over his face.

                “It’s just… it never ends,” he admits, and I can tell that I’m pushing him, but I need to let him go just a little further. “Whatever tactical flaw there is in my design or in my skills, every time I kill, it just seems to make things worse. People get angry and come for revenge or they get scared and stupid. If my owner had taken me with him that day, I would have killed half the satellite. But I don’t understand why. How is a corpse more useful than a person?” And that, it seems, is as far as his mind could follow that path of logic, because his face goes carefully blank and his hands relax against the countertop. Finally, he simply says, “I told you that I am useless.”

                I want to ask more questions about this, but I can tell that Zero is at his limit. I don’t want to push him too far and have to deal with an outburst, so I shrug and say, “And I told you, I don’t have any need for a combat slave, so your past performance doesn’t matter.”

                This has the opposite effect of what I’d been hoping for. Instead of relaxing, he tenses more, his hands going into fists by his sides, and a frown slowly creeping onto his face. He turns toward me, his body language aggressive but not posed to attack. Perhaps he hadn’t thought I was serious when I suggested it previously. Or maybe he just hadn’t accepted all the connotations of being used for something other than a killer, like the fact that all his training and experience is now moot. Either way, it seems like he’s a lot less comfortable with my plan this morning than he was last night.

                But I don’t want to push him too far, so I change the subject and ask, “What was your daily life like? You said something about a routine?”

                “I usually sleep for four to six hours a night,” he says, and the tension bleeds away from him, so this is obviously a topic he has little difficulty talking about. “My physical workout consists of four hours of exercise and four hours of martial arts practice. The remaining twelve hours are spent securing my owner’s property and investments. Should I continue this schedule?”

                And that’s a loaded question. Do I want him to keep killing himself with that pace? No. Do I think I can ask him to quit immediately without him having a breakdown? Also no. But there is no way I can let him do the full routine with how badly damaged his body is.

                I rise from the table, step up beside him, and glance down his side. There is still a lot of bruising. No inflammation, thankfully, but more damage than I am comfortable with.

                “Look at me,” I instruct, and he turns immediately. I lay my hand across the motley of bruises along his ribcage. The skin still looks painful, still feels tender under my fingers. Zero does not flinch, but I know now that I can’t trust that to mean that it doesn’t hurt. I let my hand trail down his side and settle my fingers at his hip. My eyes go lower, and it is the first time I’ve let myself truly look at his sex, the first time that he’s been well enough that it doesn’t feel like I’m taking advantage. Well, taking more advantage. His cock is flaccid but still of an average size, nestled in a patch of short, dark hair. Zero’s face shows no signs of growing facial hair, but it seems that his pubic hair hasn’t been touched. It’s common now for men to have their body hair lasered off so that they don’t have to deal with shaving. I appreciate that they’ve left Zero’s pubic hair alone, and I wonder if I’ll be able to let him keep it, or if it will be too out of place on a pleasure asset. It is difficult to tell while he is unaroused, but I can only imagine what his cock would look like in the heat of passion, what he would look like in the throes of lust. My hand dips lower, circles the inside of his thigh, and my thumb trails a gentle line over his shaft.

                He stiffens, but makes no other reaction. Not even a twitch from his cock. It’s too soon, then. Even in this master/slave role that I have been forced into, I would much prefer an active, interested partner to a cold, lifeless doll. I pull back, step away from him, and watch his shoulders relax as his eyes remain fixed on the ground. He is still too hurt for sex, too new to it. I’ll have to start slowly, and his body is still tense with repressed energy. I decide that I’ll let him tire himself out, then start training him later in the evening. Plans are already forming in my head, a timeline and goals. I’ll have to be patient.

                “I’ll show you the gym equipment. You are allowed to complete half of your physical workout routine, then you are to shower and come and find me. Do not attempt anything that focuses on your abdominal muscles. Do not continue if you feel ill or faint. Am I understood?”

                “Yes, master,” he says, and there is no inflection that I can read from him, nothing to tell me if he approves of my choice or not. I guess it doesn’t really matter.


	7. Bite It Til It Bleeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update this time, sorry guys! I promise I have more coming! Please leave feedback, I'd really like to know what you're liking and what you're not. 
> 
> IntrepidEm is my beta. She's brilliant and amazing. How does she put up with me? No one knows.

Zero - 07

                The interrogation by my new owner is swift. He doesn’t question my statements, but he also doesn’t reveal any clear indication of what information he is trying to gain from me. I can’t imagine what he gains from the detailed description of my past that he extracts. All of the pertinent information is available in my file. If he had expected resistance or deception from me, then he was mistaken. I hold no allegiance to my former owner or creators. I have been trained not to. I think that he might have more questions for me at a later time, but it’s difficult to tell.

                It’s easier when he leaves me alone. I am accustomed to being alone. My new owner introduces me to my training area, and then thankfully leaves me to my own devices. I had feared that he would watch me. It isn’t that I’m concerned about performing to his standards. I had been rigorously tested at the labs, and those who did not excel had been eliminated. But my owner has set limits for my training that I do not understand, and I’m not sure how to perform for him while keeping to the limits he has set. With him gone, I am able to focus on training while minimizing the impact to my damaged areas, as he instructed. There is pain, but I am used to that. The rhythm of it is soothing, and I feel some of the tension leave me.

                When I finish with my training, I head to the communal shower behind the training room. The icy spray bites into my skin, increasing the ache from my exercise and stinging the open cuts on my torso. The pain is tolerable, and these are far from the worst conditions I’ve faced, so I ignore it. When I have cleaned the sweat from my body, I step quickly into an automated dryer and blow the excess water from my body. My skin prickles with the cold, but it is an involuntary reaction, so there’s nothing I could do to stop it. I have not been provided clothes, so I walk naked to find my owner, and do my best to suppress the shivers wracking my form.

                I find him easily. He hasn’t gone far, and the sound of softly playing music leads me to a smaller room with a sofa and a few end tables. My owner is curled against the arm of the couch looking at a tablet. He rises when he sees me. His hair is wet and his clothes have been changed, and I wonder if he has trained as I did before coming here.

                “Kneel,” he instructs, and then winces at the sound as my knees impact the floor. The carpet beneath me is thick and I know that there will be no damage to my knees, although the impact sends a painful jolt up my side.

                He circles me. It is the first time that he has approached me in the manner of an owner, keeping himself above and dominant while I submit below. It does not bother me. I am designed to be submissive to my owner. I am a tool, to be used and discarded. Nothing more.

                “I realize that it’s going to be difficult for you to adjust to being my slave,” he tells me, his voice stern, “but I expect you will excel at whatever tasks I ask of you.”

                He makes a slow circle around me. It is a classic move of intimidation, a maneuver done for my benefit alone, to put me off-balance and make me feel weak. It makes me wonder again if I am the first asset for this owner. His movements are fluid and confident. They don’t seem practiced so much as natural, or perhaps experienced. It seems strange for an owner to bother with intimidation techniques, when discipline is so easily available. My former owner never had, but he might have been an exception to the rule. I have no other owners to base my knowledge on, and my last owner had rarely socialized inside of the Leash. He had been busy supervising his business, and the other owners had been above his income bracket anyway.

                Zeke’s steps slow, waiting for my response. I can feel my owner’s mood changing, becoming more dominant, so I lower my head submissively.

                “Yes, Owner,” I respond, and it makes him pause.

                “I’d like you to refer to me as Master Zeke,” he corrects. “Master or sir are also acceptable. I didn’t just buy you, like a houseplant. I intend to train you, to bend you to my will.”

                “Yes, sir,” I respond again. I can tell that he means to break me. It is unnecessary. My training has made it so that I will obey orders. There is nothing left to break.

                “I want to begin teaching you how to pleasure me. But first,” he says, and trails his fingers across my shoulder, then stops abruptly. His entire demeanor shifts, and he asks, “Why the hell are you ice cold?”

                I have a hard time following his mood shifts. I frown and respond, “You told me to shower after my training.”

                “I didn’t… why the hell would I want you to get a cold shower?”

                “I have been trained to endure harsh environments. I am accustomed to tolerating drops in my temperature,” I explain. It only seems to upset him more.

                “I don’t need you developing hypothermia because you’re too stubborn to use the hot water,” he growls, and grabs my wrist. “Up!” he barks, pulling me to my feet. I obey, knowing that following his orders and taking a beating are still better than being disciplined with the chip.

                I am surprised when he pushes me onto the couch. I doubt that he will want to beat me here and get blood on the fabric. Instead, he grabs a quilt from the other side of the room and comes back to the couch, pulling me against him and then wrapping the blanket around us both. I stay tense even as my body leans against him, and eventually he sighs.

                “Relax,” he instructs, his voice a bit calmer. “I wanted you to get used to my presence. That was the lesson for today, letting me into your space.” He gives a dry chuckle. “I guess this counts,” he tells me, then sobers. “But no more ice showers.”

                “I can withstand–” I try, but he cuts me off.

                “I don’t need you to prepare for battle. I’ve already told you, I’ve got other things in mind for you.”

                The idea he has of using me for sexual gratification still baffles me. I don’t understand why he thinks a well-trained combat asset can be more valuable as an untrained pleasure asset. Perhaps for the novelty? And maybe he will be entertained by my attempts at sensuality for a while, but I doubt it will last. I have too many skills for him to pass them up. Allowing my skills to atrophy will destroy my value as an asset. Why can’t he see that?

                “It will weaken me,” I try to explain. “I won’t–”

                “You will,” he tells me firmly, and even pulls my face to look him in the eye. “I’m going to give you a pass because today is your first day with me and you’re not used to this. I’m okay with you questioning my orders, so long as we’re alone. But you will obey them. And the next time I hear a hint that you plan to disobey, there will be consequences.”

                “Yes, master,” I respond. He nods and lets it go.

                I wait.

                He leans away from me. His body is still pressed against my side, and I can feel his warmth and the softness of his clothes against my naked skin.

                I wait, forcing myself to stay still.

                He picks up his tablet and scrolls through messages.

                I wait, and my body starts to ache with tension.

                Nothing happens. He opens a document and scrolls through, sighing as he leans into the arm of the couch, settling his feet against my thigh.

                I wait, and think, _“What the fuck is he doing?”_

                He’d said he’d wanted to acclimate me to his touch. It obviously means that he wants sex of some sort. I can only hope that he’ll get it over with and get it out of his system. It is unlikely that I’ll make a very successful pleasure slave. I’m not trained for it. My body is hardened by my training, and sex with me would be nothing like the soft, lustful pleasure slaves that most masters keep. I would be a novelty, and little more.

                So why is he doing nothing? Curled on the couch, languidly flipping through his screens, while I’m on edge beside him, my head buzzing with anxiety. Is it some kind of power play? Is it meant to teach me something? Does he get some sort of pleasure from having me at his beck and call, even when I am doing nothing?

                The chills from my shower fade gradually. The various aches and pains from my body, exacerbated by my recent time in an emergency capsule and my exercise routine, make themselves known. The warmth of the afghan and the body beside me are soothing. My thoughts slow, as there is no activity to keep my attention. I listen to the noises of the ship, but the engines are new and perfectly silent, generating only a small hum that is more felt than heard. I’ve seen no evidence of other occupants, despite not yet doing a security sweep of the ship, and I am fairly certain Zeke and I are alone. That leaves me nearly pointless as a guard. I’d be much more useful in the helm, where I could monitor the ship for outside attackers. But Zeke has already shown reluctance to utilize me in a combat fashion, so I haven’t dared to suggest where I might be more useful.

                The heat, and the quiet, and the boredom are not things I am accustomed to. My life is cold, noisy, and busy. I need to be on my toes at all times, as there is rarely a day that my life isn’t in danger, that my hands aren’t covered in blood.

                In this situation, with Zeke, I try to keep myself alert, but it is difficult. Despite being at 85% capabilities, my body is still recovering. With no activity and no threat of violence, it wants to sleep until I am needed again. Normally, I would take this chance to rest, remaining on only partial alertness in case of an attack. But with this master, I can’t take the chance that he will want me awake. So I stare at the wall in front of me, giving him sidelong glances when I know his attention is elsewhere, and dig my nails into my palm to keep myself awake.

                It works for a time, but my nails are short and smooth, and unable to pierce the flesh of my palm. I try scratching my arms under the blankets. It has a slightly better result, and my nails catch on one of the many cuts that are already there, which sends a jolt of pain through me that wakes me up for several minutes. But the movement also catches Zeke’s attention and he glances at me, although he hasn’t seen what I’m doing. I won’t try that one again. There’s no need to let him know that I’m having difficulties with the most menial of tasks. It’s bad enough that he already thinks so little of my combat skills that he wants to change my designation; I can’t risk lowering his opinion.

                When I catch myself dozing, my head lolling against the couch, I know I’ll have to try something more drastic to stay awake. I bite my lip until I tasted blood and I feel my mind engage again, all thoughts of sleep fading as I come alert. It’s short-lived, though. My body heals at an accelerated rate, and a split-lip is nothing. In a few minutes, the blood clots and the pain fades, and I find myself dozing again.

                The second bite comes out of frustration and impatience with myself. In a strange environment and with a new master, and I can’t even find the will to keep myself awake? It’s beneath me. Boredom is no excuse for laziness, for being unprepared. I bite harder than before, and the taste of blood immediately fills my mouth.

                I drastically overestimate how much pressure it takes to split open my lip. Blood dribbles down my chin, and I hurry to catch it with my hand before it lands on the blankets or the couch. I have little hope of hiding it from Zeke, and he notices immediately.

                “What happened? Are you hurt?” he asks and moves to kneel in front of me. He pulls my hands away from my face and assesses the damage. The bleeding has slowed to a dribble, but a few drops splatter onto the afghan. It is maroon in color, and the blood doesn’t really show on the fabric, but I’m not sure it will save me from a punishment. “Zero, what the hell happened?”

                “I was falling asleep,” I explain, hoping that he won’t need me to elaborate. It’s a vain hope. It seems almost like Zeke and I barely speak the same language.

                “And?” he prompts.

                “I needed to stay awake for your commands.”

                “So you… Did you bite your own fucking lip so that you could stay awake? While I was sitting right there?” His words sound angry, but his face just looks… baffled. I can’t read him. I know I’m in trouble, but I can’t tell how much or how to make it better. He waits, though, so I think that I should probably say something as a response. My last owner would allow me to stay quiet during his tirades and actually discouraged me from defending my actions, but it seems that Zeke doesn’t function like that. It is easier just to ride out the punishment.

                “You did not order me to sleep,” I defend without inflection, having little hope that I will be shown mercy for a second mistake that day.

                “I… That doesn’t mean I want you to hurt yourself. I just…” and then he gives me a look that is very sad, and I can’t quite understand what it means. When he speaks again, his voice is devoid of anger, and he merely asks, “Do you remember where you slept last night?” I nod. “Go there. Wash your face. Then sleep,” he tells me. “In the bed,” he adds quickly, like an afterthought. “I’ll wake you for the next meal.”

                I stand, puzzled but relieved at least to have instructions to follow. I don’t look back at Zeke as I leave the room, but he radiates his disappointment. It has more bite, I think, than an actual punishment. I am unaccustomed to failure. Those who fail, in my experience, die quickly and painfully.

                I wash my face in the bathroom sink, and the wound on my lip is already starting to scab over. The sheets, when I climb onto the massive bed, are cold. My mind flashes to how pleasant the warmth of Zeke’s body was, and I shake my head to clear it. Owners mean only pain and death to an asset. There is no sense in thinking pleasantly about anything relating to Zeke. I lay back in the sheets and wrap the blankets tightly around myself, warming them with my own body heat.

                And despite the luxury of a soft bed and warm blankets, despite how tired I am and how much my body aches, it takes far longer than I expect to fall asleep.

 


	8. Reality Check With Mari

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IntrepidEm heard that everyone was desperate for a new chapter, so she put a rush on this one and finished it a week early! Most awesome beta ever!

Zeke - 08

 

                “I don’t know what to do with him, Mari. I thought this whole dangerous-ex-killer-sex-slave routine would work, but he’s practically a robot.”

                “What was the idea behind that, anyway?” she asks, one eyebrow raised as if to say, “What made you think it would be a good idea in the first place?”

                “I don’t know,” I sigh, and run my hands through my hair in frustration. Mari is the only one I can vent to like this, even if it is through a vid-screen. In front of Zero, I need to be cold and confident. I need him to have faith in me as a leader, and there is also the possibility that he could be a plant sent here to report on me, although my suspicion of that is dwindling. “It was a bit spur of the moment. I wasn’t expecting him to be so hardened. I thought he’d be… well… timid.”

                “Oh, I’m sure he is, in his own way,” Mari argues. “But for people in his position, the weak ones don’t last very long. Even Zero was at the end of his endurance when you got him, ready to die instead of continuing on as a murderer.”

                “I guess I just figured that if he couldn’t be used as a killer, maybe I could salvage him as a sex slave? He seemed pretty sure that I wouldn’t have a use for him, and I didn’t want to kill him. But he’s not even trying to adapt.”

                “Is he being rebellious? Disobedient?”

                “No. Rebellious, I could handle. He obeys everything I say to the letter, but there’s nothing else there. No spark of life. He’s as cold as metal, and I doubt he’d be any more fun to fuck at this point.”

                And that sounds a little harsh, even to my own ears. It isn’t that I’m angry at Zero. Actually, it’s the opposite. I’m worried about what will happen to him if I can’t change him into a successful sex-slave. The mission is still fresh in my mind, and I’m concerned that a failure with Zero might lower my standing and hinder my ability to get close to the inner circle. If I can’t turn him into a sex slave, I might have to work him as a combat slave or sell him. I’m terrified that Zero might have to suffer for my failure.

                “I think you need to lower your expectations,” Mari says softly. “It’s been… what? A week since you got him? You’re not going to alter a life’s worth of programming in a week.”

                “Six days,” I correct, “and I’m not looking for a complete overhaul, but any sign that I’m getting through to him would be helpful.”

                Zero has proven to be… not stubborn, perhaps, but extremely inflexible. I had given him orders in his first days that I’d hoped would give him a measure of freedom to relax and heal. Instead, he’s taken my orders and stuck as closely as possible to his original, grueling routine. Despite being told repeatedly that he would not be used as a combat slave, he’s trained his body as rigorously as ever. Even watching him exercise is painful. I had ordered him not to train for a full day earlier in the week, but he’d spent the whole day sitting by my feet staring at the wall. It didn’t seem like much of an improvement.

                “You’re the enemy, Zeke. You have to understand that, as obedient as he is, it doesn’t mean he trusts you yet.”

                “So what do I do? Wait, and hope that trust develops sooner rather than later?”

                “Unfortunately, you don’t have that luxury,” she says. “You compared him to a robot, so I’m going to keep with that metaphor. If he’s a robot, then this hands-off approach that you’re trying is putting him in a loop. He doesn’t have any new orders, so he’s trying to function under the instructions he’s had in the past. When you’re not pleased, he just tries harder. You need to push him and see what happens.”

                “What if he refuses?”

                “You said he’s not disobedient, right? I know you don’t want to use the chip on him, and that’s probably a good thing. He’s used to taking orders, so I don’t think it will come to that. I think you need to assume the role of a master and order him into his role, into performing as a sex slave. I’m not saying be cruel to him. I’m just saying, if he’s thinking like a robot and you’re not giving him any new commands, he’s going to keep doing the same things over and over.”

                “That’s… That’s a possibility, yes.”

                “Okay, so listen, you’ve got the meeting with the trainer next week. It would be great if you had Zero under control and could show him off. If not, though, you could always get some advice about how to train your slave. He is charging you an exorbitant fee for this meeting, by the way, and he’s probably going to try to sell you another slave while he’s at it. Once we see how that meeting goes, then we’ll work on getting you socializing with other masters. You need to rub elbows with the rest of the owners if you want to get more information about the competitions and how to train your slaves to win. But, for now, you need to focus on getting Zero to respond to your commands.”

                “You make it sound so simple,” I complain, but it’s just whining and I know it.

                “You also might need to think about the fact that you’re probably going to have to use him for some mostly-nonconsensual BDSM when you start to socialize him around the other owners. It might be a good idea to get him prepared now.”

                “Sounds fun,” I huff. Bondage has never seemed less appealing, with the way I assume Zero will react to it. Or his lack of reaction, more likely. The man has a face of stone when he wants to. But it does make me think, “I should probably set up some kind of safeword with him. Something for if he gets in trouble.”

                And that comment makes Mari pause.

                “Do you think it’s a good idea?” she asks. Honestly, I hadn’t even considered taking him in to situations like this without a codeword for trouble. “I mean, you won’t be able to tell him what it’s for without blowing your cover, and we both know that’s a bad idea.”

                Which is true, honestly. Even if I no longer have suspicions that Zero could be a spy, I still can’t reveal myself to him. For one, I have no idea if Zero has the necessary acting skills to maintain a long-term cover, which would drastically increase the possibility of blowing the mission. And secondly, it’s simply safer to keep Zero in the dark, for him and me. Not giving him my secrets means that no one could torture him for information if I am found out.

                “Besides that,” she continues, “it’s not like you can give him a regular safeword like ‘starfish’ or ‘red.’ These people aren’t playing at sadism, and you’ll stick out too much if you are.”

                “It would have to be something that wouldn’t be out of place in bondage, but specific enough for me to recognize. Hm,” I ponder briefly, and then shrug. “I’ll have to think on it. Was there anything else?”

                “Oh, one more thing,” she says, shuffling through the papers on her desk. “I forwarded the results from Zero’s blood scans to a private lab that you own. They have no idea what’s in his veins. They said it’s not any kind of narcotic and it doesn’t have addictive properties, but they also don’t recognize it as anything on the market or any common illegal substances. They said it doesn’t seem harmful and it’s degrading fairly quickly.”

                “Probably something else they used to control him, then?” I wonder.

                “It seems likely. Your scans and his bloodwork didn’t show any signs of illness, so I can’t imagine it’s related to that.”

                “He doesn’t seem like he’s having any withdrawal, either. I can ask him about it, but his answers tend to be vague while also being perfectly frank.”

                “Bit hard to communicate with, is he?”

                “You’ve no idea.”

                We chat a bit more, a few specifics about my company, a few things about my ship’s course, but my mind is preoccupied with thoughts of Zero. By the time she signs off, I’m still trying to convince myself that she’s wrong about what I need to do.

                But she’s not.

                I find Zero in the gym, practicing martial arts moves with an automated dummy. It’s basically a padded suit shaped like a person that keeps getting back on its feet when Zero hits it. I hadn’t known that it was on the ship, but Zero had found it early in the week and asked for permission to use it. I hadn’t even known how to turn it on, but luckily Zero had used an older model in his training, so he’d had no trouble making it work.

                I watch as Zero knocks the human-shaped piece of equipment to the floor by jumping and kicking with both feet at its shoulders. He’s wearing a pair of my blue, cotton sleeping pants, cut-off at the knee and with the drawstring pulled as tight as it will go. He swims in them, even though he’s been steadily putting on weight and muscle this week. On a steady, high-protein diet, his body is noticeably more fit than when I found him.

                But the improvements in his diet can’t explain the way he’s healing, how most of the bruising is already gone and almost all the scratches have faded to light scars. Well, the scratches that he has allowed to heal, anyway. We’ve had several incidents where I found him bleeding in the gym from pushing himself too hard and had to order him to go clean up.

                When he lands from kicking the Auto-Dummy, I call to him. He comes to me immediately and kneels at my feet. It’s not something that I’ve ordered him to do, but neither have I tried to dissuade him.

                “Yes, master,” he says, and it’s never a question. Just a verbal assurance that he will obey, that he is mine to command. It rings empty. Hollow.

                “I want you to stop training. Take a shower – in warm water,” I remind him again, although he hasn’t disobeyed that rule since his first days, “and then come to the guest bedroom to the right of ours and find me. You can put your clothes in the laundry, you won’t need them.”

                He nods once, sharply, and then turns away without question. But that’s Zero’s default programming. Obey orders immediately, do not question unless orders are tactically unsound. I watch him leave, and wonder if he’s more than I can handle. More than I can train. But my resolve is set, and I won’t give up on him. So I gather some necessities from my luggage and wait for him in the master bedroom.

                It takes him ten minutes to come to me. I’ve considered telling him that he can enjoy a longer shower, but the temperature issue is too fresh in my mind to want to start another fight. Not that he would fight me about it. More like, he’d give me a blank stare of incomprehension before elongating his shower by a minute. It had been a very similar argument when I’d found him taking cold showers, and then marginally warmer showers, until I’d physically set the temperature for him on the control panel. As far as I know, he’s simply cued that pre-programmed setting for every shower since then. But at least he isn’t showering in cold water anymore.

                He’s still wet when he finds me. We have towels on the ship, but Zero prefers to use the shower’s built-in air dryer instead. It’s a bit more modern and takes less time than a towel, and Zero seems to prefer the efficiency. I prefer the luxury of the towels, the way the soft cotton feels against my skin. I can tell that Zero thinks it’s inefficient, but he doesn’t say anything.

                Zero kneels in front of me, leaving about a foot of polite space between us. I gesture, and he rises and comes to sit beside me on the bed. I’d like to cup his face in my palm and run my fingers through his short, soft hair. I’d like to kiss him gently, and then press him down to the bed, where I can run my fingers across his skin and make love to him slowly.

                But I’m terrified, and fairly certain, that all I’ll receive for my troubles is an empty stare and a pliant doll.

                “How much experience do you have with sex?” I ask frankly. He gives me his blank look in response, and we’ve been together a week so I know that he’s not refusing to answer. He’s actually puzzled by my question, and he’s trying to decide how to answer while not giving away any clues with his facial expression. I’d be upset, but he does it all the time. When I ask what he wants for dinner. What movie he wants to watch. If he’d like to go bandage that wound before he bleeds out.

                I take pity on him and elaborate. “Have you ever had a lover? Did your former owner ask for sexual favors from you?”

                “No,” he responds, and it’s clipped but unhesitant. I want to sigh. This would go a lot more smoothly if he’d be willing to volunteer some information, instead of having me drag it out of him.

                “Can you tell me about your sexual experiences? Anything you know about sex?”

                “I’ve seen my previous owner use his sex slaves for a variety of sexual acts. I’ve seen his subordinates use sexual violence as an interrogation method on prisoners and as a punishment for rival gang members. However, I was never required to participate.”

                I wait for several seconds for him to continue. It dawns on me as we lapse into silence that he’s finished speaking.

                “Is that all?” I ask, and if my voice sounds appalled, it’s only because of shock. Zero frowns like I’ve made an accusation.

                “I was trained for combat and sold to a drug-lord. They didn’t have the luxury of wasting my skills on sexual service.”

                And there’s a lot of not-terribly-subtle messages there regarding how Zero feels about my plan to make him a sex-slave instead of a combat one. I don’t want to argue, so I ask him, “You haven’t had any sexual relations of your own? A boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

                And now he’s looking at me like I’m stupid.

                I think about it for a moment, and feel a bit stupid.

                “I suppose your last owner didn’t allow you that kind of freedom,” I admit. “And I don’t suppose the scientists gave you much in the way of free time either.”

                Zero says nothing, but has a vague air of approval. Like I’d solved a fairly easy math problem.

                “Then we’ll have to start with what you’ve seen rather than experienced. Do you remember much about what your previous owner did with his sex slaves?”

                “He used their mouths, often. Sometimes he would have anal sex with them, but it was less often and less public.” He hesitates, and then says, “They did not seem to be injured, afterwards. They were fairly well-trained and had a variety of skills.”

                It’s a good sign. Considering the amount of violent sexual acts that he’s seen, I’m glad that he’s still able to recognize that not all sex needs to be violent. He’d even acknowledged that training would be needed. It’s as close to resounding approval as I’m likely to get from Zero. I just hope it’s enough.

 


	9. Love Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is beta'd by IntrepidEm as she is awesome enough to put up with me!

Zeke - 09

                “Okay,” I tell him as we sit side-by-side on the bed. “So, I’m going to start by kissing you. Then I’m going to touch you and get you used to having my hands on you. I’m going to start showing you how to have anal sex, but we won’t get into that too much today. Then I’ll have you perform oral sex on me, and I’ll get you off before we’re finished. All right?”

                Zero nods, but I don’t expect much more than that. I move to put my hand on his cheek, but he flinches back. It takes him a second to come around to the idea. I hold my hand still and let him put his cheek against it, instead of forcing the touch on him. His skin is surprisingly soft. There’s no hint of facial hair, and it hasn’t occurred to me until now that it must have been permanently removed. It’s pretty common now that clean-shaven is the most popular look. I’d also opted out of having facial hair, although I’d bet that mine was a much more voluntary choice.

                When he relaxes into my palm, I move in to kiss him. His lips are warm against mine, but still and unresponsive. I’m not surprised. I move my lips against his and he does not mimic my actions, but he parts his lips slightly, and jerks when I slide my tongue across his bottom lip. Still, it’s not right. He’s staring at me, like I’m a predator and he’s ready to flee. It’s too much to ask that he relax for me, but… his stare is making me tense as well.

                “Zero,” I say softly as I pull back, “close your eyes when you kiss.”

                “Why?” he asks, and his voice is clear but it matches my own in volume.

                “So that you can fully experience the sensation.”

                “What if the other person has a knife?”

                It’s not funny. I have to remind myself that Zero isn’t joking, that his past experiences would lead him to believe that this is an actual possibility. I manage to smother a smile.

                “Ideally, that won’t be the case.”

                “But you’re just supposed to take that risk?”

                “Yes, you generally just have to risk it,” I respond, but his frown says that he doesn’t believe me.

                “And everyone kisses like that?”

                “Yes, Zero, that is the customary way to kiss.”

                He ponders that for a moment, then says, “People live dangerously.”

                And I can’t help but chuckle at that, which earns me a stern glare, like I’m the one who’s not taking this lesson seriously enough.

                “Can we accept, at least, that I’m not likely to stab you? And that it’s safe to close your eyes when kissing me?”

                It hurts me, just a bit, that he hesitates before he nods. But then, I remind myself, he’s not supposed to trust me. His eyes slip closed and I return my hand to his cheek and pull him in for another kiss. It’s more natural this time, and I let my eyes slide shut as well. When my tongue sides across Zero’s lips this time, Zero doesn’t jerk in surprise. I ease him backwards until he is reclined on his elbow and I’m leaning over him. I deepen the kiss and slide my tongue into his mouth, as my hand slips down his chest and across his taut abs. I run my fingers across his pelvis before dipping lower. His cock is surrounded by a light dusting of fine hair, and I run my fingers through it before circling his manhood. He’s still flaccid, but I’m not surprised. This situation is stressful, and Zero isn’t easily relaxed. I give it a few experimental strokes and then move my hand down his thigh. I’m pretty certain that paying too much attention to his cock will make Zero overthink it, and I want this to come as naturally as possible, given the circumstances.

                “Lay back,” I advise. He drops his elbows and falls flat against the bed. I move over top of him and resume our kiss, but Zero is tense. It’s the wrong move. Zero’s hands are braced against the bed, and I can tell that he feels trapped with my body over top of him. I pull back, and lay beside him. He pushes himself back up on his elbow and looks down at me, his face blank but the question is obvious. I smile.

                “Kiss me,” I instruct, and he hesitates for a moment, then slowly leans over me. When he kisses me this time, his lips move against mine. It’s a chaste kiss, but he’s learning, trying, and I’m thrilled. When I deepen the kiss this time, he opens his mouth willingly and lets my tongue dart inside, lets me plunder his mouth without protest.

                He’s relaxed now, and I’m hesitant to change that, but I know we need to proceed. I kiss him for a few moments more, letting him get used to this intimacy, to having any part of me inside him. Then I, regretfully, pull back.

                “Hands and knees,” I tell him, and watch as some of the tension returns. He turns away from me hesitantly and follows my directions. His face is toward the head of the bed, his hands braced shoulder width apart, his knees only a hand’s length apart. I get up and move behind him, adjusting the position of his legs by pushing the apart until they’re spread wide.

                The nature of this mission is inherently sexual, and this ship has a full stock of sex toys and paraphernalia. I’ve got a few discreet items hidden away in the bedside table, in case anything spontaneous happens (although I doubt that it will. Zero doesn’t seem to have a spontaneous bone in his body, and certainly not between his legs). I bypass the toys and settle on a lubricant gel that I know to be soothing and mild, with no odor or flavor. Zero is adjusting to a lot, and I don’t want to overload him with unnecessary stimuli.

                “Drop your shoulders to the bed,” I instruct as I move to kneel behind him. He complies immediately, burying his face in his forearms. With his thighs parted, his ass spreads on its own, revealing a dusky pucker above his testicles. I blow on it gently and watch as Zero shivers, as his hole clenches spasmodically at the unusual sensation. I put a dab of gel directly on his hole and watch as the muscles of his thighs jerk. Zero has iron-like control of himself, but this is a strange and stressful situation. I realize how close I probably just came to being kicked in the face.

                “Sorry,” I tell him softly. “Should have warned you. Would you be more comfortable on you back?”

                It takes him a few moments to respond, and then he merely shakes his head. I wait, hoping he’ll elaborate.

                “The stomach is more vulnerable,” he explains as best he can. “I won’t… relax if your hands are there. And my arms are pinned this way, so I don’t have to watch myself.”

                It makes me realize what a fine line I’m walking on, and how valiantly Zero is trying to obey. This act makes one person inherently more vulnerable than the other, something Zero has been trained never to allow. At the same time, Zero could easily injure me. So he has to watch both of us at once.

                “Alright,” I agree mildly, while lubing my fingers. “Then I’m going to touch you. I’m going to put my fingers inside of you, and it’s probably going to feel strange, but it won’t hurt you. Just try to relax, and let me know if it’s too much.”

                I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he doesn’t believe me, but then I don’t really expect him to.

                The first finger slips in easily. It surprises a gasp out of Zero, but nothing more. There isn’t much resistance to a finger, and I slide it in and out a few times, letting him get used to the sensation. I can feel his muscles clench around me, like his body doesn’t know how to respond to this intrusion. I keep a slow, smooth pace until he settles and relaxes, until the muscles go limp and pliant.

                The second finger always causes a little stretch, so I pull the first finger out and twine them to make it easier for him to take. I slip them in up to the first knuckle without feeling too much resistance. I pause there, giving Zero time to adjust.

                “I want you to rock your hips back at me,” I tell him, because it’s the easiest way to get used to the intrusion. I hope letting him take back some of the control will set him more at ease. “Go at your own pace, and work yourself onto my fingers.”

                There’s a moment of hesitation, and I put my free hand on his hip, ready to guide him if he needs convincing. It’s a good thing, because I can feel the way he stiffens just before he thrusts himself back at me, trying to impale himself in one move. I manage to move with him, pulling my hand back so that my fingers are no deeper than before.

                “Not…!” I snap, but cut myself off. It’s my fault, in the end. I should have realized that Zero would see it as a challenge. It seems like “ _at your own pace_ ” has always meant “ _as fast as possible_ ” when he’s been given orders before. “Okay, never mind,” I tell him, and push at his hip until he’s settled in his original position. “Just stay still for me.”

                I start working my fingers slowly inside him, feeling the way his body sucks me in, and it’s the first time through this encounter that I let myself admit that I’m hard. Zero is gorgeous. He’s hot and strong and –if not willing – then at least obedient beneath me. I’m still dressed, with a painful erection contained by my jeans, while I work two fingers inside of him to the second knuckle.

                The temptation is there just to fuck him. His hole is so sweet and warm around my fingers, and I’d love to know how it feels around my cock. Zero wouldn’t fight me, although I’d inevitably cause him pain. But he’s been expecting pain from the start, so this wouldn’t come as any surprise. And the mission is designed for me to blend in, so I wouldn’t need to worry about my position either. There’s really nothing stopping me from burying myself in Zero’s tight ass and pounding him until I’m satisfied.

                Except that I’m not that monster, whatever else I might be. The temptation is there to take pleasure from him, but I have no interest in actually hurting him. I want to give him pleasure from this as well, not spoil it by being impatient. So when my twined fingers are finally buried completely inside him, I pull back.

                “Flip around now. You’re doing very well,” I tell him. He sits up, glances over his shoulder at me. He gives me a questioning look. I can tell that he was expecting this to go further, but we have time. I don’t want to hurt him.

                I stand and unbutton my shirt, then drop it to the floor. My pants go next, and I have to contain a groan as my erection is freed. Behind me, I can hear Zero shifting, and when I turn to him again he’s standing beside me.

                “What are we doing?” he asks. It’s clear how he thought this was going to end. I smile and take his hand.

                “We’ll get to that another time,” I tell him, and bring his hand to my erection. “Now, you’re going to learn how to suck a cock.”

                He stills, hesitant, before wrapping his fingers around my manhood. His hands are calloused and strong, and I feel a thrill of lust along with a quick spike of trepidation.

                “Be gentle,” I caution him, and he gives me a sly smile. He is, apparently, aware of how sensitive the flesh in his hand is. But the smile fades, and he gives a few tentative strokes to my length, still uncertain. I keep from bucking my hips by force of will alone.

                “On your knees,” I command, then catch him as a drops. We’re still working on that one. “Gently,” I chide as I lower him the rest of the way.

                He nods, settling on his knees at my feet. His hands reach for my cock again, and his fingers are a little less hesitant this time.

                “Stroke it,” I tell him. His hands run along my length, but there’s too little friction. Afraid of hurting me, he isn’t using enough pressure. “Like this,” I say, and place my hand over his, squeezing until there’s just the right amount of pressure. After a moment, when I feel like he has it, I remove my hand, and he continues to stroke my length slowly.

                “Now take it in your mouth,” I instruct. He glances at me, then opens his mouth and takes the head of my shaft inside. My hips give an involuntary jerk before I can get myself under control. His mouth is warm and wet, and it takes all of my control to keep from shoving deep inside. Zero is still staring up at me. I slip my hand against his cheek, slide my cock in and out of his mouth just a bit. After a moment, he brings his hands up to hold my hips. “Suck it,” I tell him, and groan as he closes his lips around me.

                It’s not a terribly difficult task, and Zero is an apt pupil, so he gets the hang of it fairly quickly. I make a point of being noisier than strictly necessary and offer frequent verbal cues and praises. He’s still awkward with his hands, afraid to use too much pressure, but his enthusiasm makes up for it. He can take half of my length easily, despite the fact that I’m well-endowed, which is more than I’d expected from a first-timer.

                After a few minutes, I move to sit on the bed, and having Zero between my knees is a particularly erotic sight. I’d like to think that it’s one of the better blowjobs that I’ve received, but I know that my opinion is marred by the fact that it’s been months since I’ve received one at all.

                “Put your hands down,” I guide him eventually. “We’re going to do something a bit more advanced. Keep your mouth open for me, and I’m going to guide your head. If you need breathe or you start to gag, just pull back. I don’t want to hurt you or get bit.”

                Zero nods, but he has a wary look in his eyes again. I can’t blame him, this isn’t a particularly easy or pleasant skill to learn. It takes me back to my own first time learning to deep throat – I couldn’t have been any older than Zero, although I can’t remember for sure. I’d been with a group of boys roughly similar to me in age, pretending to be just as stupid and twice as desperate as they were. If I remember correctly, my assignment had been to get information on a high-profile drug dealer who specialized in preying on spoiled rich kids by hooking them on drugs and then kidnapping them. In order to get close, however, I’d had to suck the leader and three of his underlings’ cocks. If it weren’t for the possibility of prison if I failed the mission, I’m not sure I could have succeeded. I certainly didn’t do it for the spoiled fucks who had gotten high and then watched. I can remember, even now, how frightened and out of my depth I’d been. Choking on the leader’s fat dick, my eyes watering, my “friends” laughing in the background while he’d forced my head down and I’d struggled not to bite him. I’d come a long way since then, learning techniques to seduce without putting myself in repulsive situations, but I’d never been able to leave behind my beginnings.

                I shake myself out of the memories. I’m hoping to keep Zero as far from the traumatic events of my past as possible, which is why it’s so important to start training him right away, so that he has time to adjust to his sexuality, instead of having it forced upon him. Deep-throating doesn’t necessarily have to be unpleasant for the one performing it. I’ve been in Zero’s place several times for men who enjoyed bondage and control, and enjoyed my role as a submissive. I imagine that the person I’m portraying now would probably enjoy dominating Zero, although I’d honestly feel more comfortable taking a slower pace with him. But it’s not really an option.

                My hands come up to the side of his face and slide into his short, fuzzy hair. I guide him onto my length, watching it disappear in his mouth. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t pull back. After a few strokes, I pull him down further, push my cock in deeper than he’s tried before. He takes it, but I see his shoulders jerk as I hit the back of his throat, and I pull him off before he can gag. I give some shallow thrusts then, before trying again. He gags a second time, making a noise of panic, but it goes deeper than the first time, and again he doesn’t bite me or jerk away. When I push his head back to give him air, though, he pulls out of my grip.

                “I’m sorry, master,” he says, his eyes lowered to the ground.

                “For?” I prompt.

                “For not being able to take you length,” he clarifies, and I roll my eyes because I know he isn’t looking at my face.

                “If you were good at fellatio, then I wouldn’t need to give you lessons. You’ve been doing very well. I’m very pleased with your progress.” I see his eyes come up at that, still hesitant and worried about failure. I lay my hand against his cheek and smile encouragingly. “Shall we continue?”

                He nods and returns my cock to his mouth without prompting. I have excellent control of my orgasm, which is good because Zero’s mouth is warm and sweet, and I let out a shuddering breath before I get back to the task at hand. I set a rhythm of short, shallow thrusts followed by one deeper stroke, repeated until Zero is able to take most of my length. Zero, for his part, shows the same intensity in this task as he does in his physical training, and more than once I find myself holding his head back so that he doesn’t injure himself by taking more than he can handle.

                By the time I decide that we’ve practiced enough for the day, I’m nearly ready to come. Zero is flushed and panting through his nose, obviously overwrought by these new sensations. I’d like to come in Zero’s mouth, but I’m not certain about my control during orgasm, and I won’t risk frightening him. I push him back gently and he lets my cock fall from his mouth with a soft pop. His mouth stays open and his eyes seek mine, his face questioning.

                “Stay just like that,” I tell him, and my hand finds my own cock and begins to stroke it. “Don’t move.”

                It takes embarrassingly few strokes for me to find my completion, and I come hard, splattering come across Zero’s face and into his open mouth. A few drops splash across the bridge of his nose, and I can’t deny how debauched and erotic he looks.

                I take a moment to enjoy my orgasm and Zero sits patiently, his mouth still open, my semen streaked across his face. Finally I move and reach for a tissue to clean him up, wiping the come from his nose and cheek.

                “You can spit that out if you want to,” I tell him. “You don’t have to swallow it this time.”

                He does spit it out, but he doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by the taste of my come or the fact that I just spent myself on his face.

                “Is that it?” he asks me, and his voice is a little hoarse.

                “Almost,” I tell him and motion for him to sit beside me on the bed. “You did very well. I’m very happy with your progress today, and we’ll practice more on another day. But for now, I’m going to give you an orgasm as well, and then we’ll finish with a shower. Alright? Lie back against the headboard for me.”

                He complies, and I notice that he’s less tense now. Maybe it’s praise or simply practice, but I feel like he would have been much more upset about having me so close to his vital organs when we started this.

                I move between Zero’s thighs and settle myself so that I’m laying on my stomach between his legs, looking down at his member. Zero is still flaccid, and remains so even as I reach out to stroke him. But it’s okay. I don’t take offense. This is a stressful situation, and I know that Zero is nervous. Besides, I’m a professional lover as well as a spy, so he literally couldn’t be in better hands. I smile to myself as I take his limp cock between my lips, determined to coax it to hardness and give my soldier the best orgasm of his life.

                After twenty minutes, I admit defeat. Zero is starting to chafe, and my wrist and jaw are getting sore. I pull back and stare at Zero’s worried expression.

                “Zero… Can I ask you… Do you not find men attractive?”

                “I don’t understand,” he says. I hadn’t thought to ask, before. It’s rare, in this time period, to find someone who’s exclusively attracted to one gender or the other. Most people are bisexual, leaning more or less toward a set of attributes that aren’t strictly based on gender. But there are still a few people, mostly religious fundamentalists and traditional families, who strictly base sexuality on gender. Perhaps Zero is one of the few who simply doesn’t find one gender attractive.

                “I mean, are you only sexually attracted to women?”

                He stares at me for a long while, and I would have assumed that he was refusing to answer, but with Zero I know that he’s trying to figure out what his answer should be. Finally, he says, “I do not have sexual attraction to women.”

                “When you masturbate,” I try, and wish this conversation was a little less awkward. “Do you picture a man or a woman?”

                “I don’t.”

                “Don’t what?”

                “Masturbate.”

                My eyes go to his flaccid cock, and my stomach drops.

                “Well… shit.”


	10. An Exercise In Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is beta'd by IntrepidEm as she is awesome enough to put up with me!

Zero - 10

                “This is going to be an exercise in trust.”

                He says it like it’s a choice, not a punishment. But with my hands cuffed and strung to the ceiling above my head, it’s difficult to believe.

                I had hoped to never be led to this room. It would be foolish to hope that Zeke’s ship isn’t equipped with one. All masters have a punishment room. It isn’t really the size or equipment in the room that makes them effective; it’s how often and how effectually the master uses them.

                Zeke seems right at home amongst the dungeon-style furniture here. He’s dressed in a tight, red shirt, form-fitting black pants and leather boots. There’s an obvious change, both in his looks and demeanor, but there are no signs of nervousness. If anything, he looks more confident than he has in our previous interactions, and I can hazard a guess that I might be his first slave, but I’m far from the first person that he’s had in this position. I glance around the room. It’s a wide, open space, with hard floors and dim lighting. Most of the other equipment is shadowed, but the place where I’m being held is thrown into stark relief by focused lighting. I wonder if all the sections of room are individually lit.

                My wrists are held in shackles, which are magnetically locked, and then attached to a length of twined metal wire, which is threaded through a winch system that’s bolted to the ceiling and, most likely, the metal beams of the ship. When my owner had locked my wrists in the manacles, the winch system had easily pulled my arms above my head. I’ve got enough leeway to pivot on the balls of my feet, although my heels won’t touch the ground. It’s just enough length to keep me from suffocating, since hanging my full weight by my wrists would compress my chest and prevent my lungs from expanding. If I don’t stay balanced on my toes, there’s also the possibility of dislocating my shoulders, depending on how long he hangs me here. I brace my feet and give an experimental pull, and feel more than hear the groan of the metal. If I use my wrists to pull myself up, I might be able to flip over and brace my feet against the ceiling. The beam and the cable are too solid for me to break, but I might be able to burn up the motor in the winch or break its locking mechanism.

                It’s a futile idea, prompted more by habit than intention. I won’t break loose. If I’d planned to escape, I wouldn’t have let myself be put in the manacles. The easiest time to run would have been before I was restrained. I don’t understand what error put me in this situation. But I will surrender and try to embrace the punishment. It doesn’t escape my attention that we are only days from meeting with a trainer. It’s likely that the trainer will make an offer to buy me, and my performance today might determine whether Zeke keeps me or not.

                My new owner is an enigma. The past week has been a series of unexplainable and baffling disappointed looks from him. The simplest things – from bleeding on the workout equipment to setting the temperature of my shower incorrectly – get me a sorrowful look and a few words of correction. Any one of them could have been enough to warrant this, but none stand out in the way Zeke reacted. If I can’t pinpoint which behavior he’s trying to correct, I can’t rectify it.

                “I want you to trust me,” he tells me, his voice calm and smooth. I don’t know if that’s better than anger. “I know I’m asking a lot from you in a short amount of time.”

               He sounds sympathetic, which is a good way to get me to lower my defenses. But he doesn’t need me to lower my defenses. I’m well-trained and obedient. He’s treated me better than I’d anticipated, and I’d prefer to stay with him than to be killed or sold. If I understood my mistake, I would correct it myself.

                Unfortunately, I have a sinking suspicion that the mistake that I’ve committed isn’t one that I’ll be able to fix. Zeke began my sexual training four days ago, and while he had seemed pleased by my willingness to learn, he’d been extremely disappointed when I’d been unable to get an erection for him. Which had baffled me again, because he doesn’t need for me to be aroused in order to service him. Maybe it’s an aesthetic purpose? But, either way, I have no means for fulfilling his request. I’ve never had an erection before. It seems like my body is not designed for pleasure.

                “Zero,” he calls, because my mind has wandered. He ghosts a hand down my back and my skin prickles. I’m not unused to being naked, but I’ve been clothed most of the time for the last few days. The cool air against my skin is an unpleasant reminder of how exposed and vulnerable I am like this.

                “Yes, master,” I respond.

                “I want you to understand that you are not being punished,” he says.

                “Yes, master.” I’m not being punished. I’m being corrected. A punishment is pain in response to a behavior. A correction is pain to keep a behavior from reoccurring. It’s a slight distinction that I understand all too well.

                “Trust must go both ways,” he explains. “I’m going to be putting you in situations dangerous to both your mental and physical well-being. You must trust me to keep you safe, as well as I must trust you to tell me when you’re at your limits. Do you understand?”

                I don’t respond, because I don’t understand. There are too many hypotheticals. The concept of trust is foreign to me. I am trained for logic and obedience. If I am given a task, I will use all my skills and strength to accomplish it. My only trust is that my owner will use my skills to his best advantage. My previous owner failed me in this. My current one makes no sense to me, but I cannot say that he has failed to utilize me. Since I am broken as a tool of death, he has sought to use me a as a tool for pleasure, and he’s overcome some of my initial skepticism at this plan.

                I keep my face blank, make no sort of acknowledgement. My owner peers at me, as though he can read my carefully cloaked expression. Eventually, he says, “I need you to trust me, and I don’t really know how to make that happen. So we’re going to practice, and hopefully it will become second nature.”

                I say nothing, but this time it doesn’t seem that my response is necessary. My owner moves behind me, and I could turn to see what he is doing, but it would require that I twist the wire that I’m suspended from, and I’m not sure that the movement is allowed. I hear things moving and his footsteps return. He brushes my arm as he walks in front of me, and I have to fight not to react. I don’t know why I’m feeling so anxious. There’s little that my new owner can do to me that hasn’t already been done.

                Little, I suppose, but not everything. My ass clenches, wondering if he plans to use this punishment to continue my sexual education. The acts he’s had me perform so far have been only marginally unpleasant, more than tolerable for someone with my endurance. Perhaps now is when that changes.

                But there is a rod in his hand as he appears in my line of vision, not a sexual device. It’s as long as my arm but as thick as my index finger. He holds it up and rotates his wrist so that I can see that it’s made of smooth, synthetic material, with no spikes or blades attached. Still, I know that the tool can do a lot of damage to the vital parts of my body, as I am nearly defenseless in this position. It’s slightly shiny, with no signs of use or wear. Zeke holds it in a firm grip. I have no doubt that he can wield it efficiently.

                “This is a fairly standard beginner’s cane. It’s designed to inflict pain without causing damage,” he tells me, then pauses. His hand comes up to my cheek and turns my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. “So, here’s what we’re going to do this time. I’m going to strike you five times on the back, butt, and thighs. After that, you’re going to say, ‘I beg you to stop.’ Those five words, exactly like that. Do you understand? Any time I’m pushing you and you’ve reached your limit, you can say, ‘I beg you to stop.’ I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to stop immediately every time, but I will end whatever we’re doing as quickly as possible. We’re going to try it now. Remember, five strikes, and then you tell me to stop.”

                He moves behind me quickly, and the first strike hits me as I’m still trying to understand his words. Does he want me to admit failure, admit weakness? Or is he playing some kind of mind-game that I don’t understand? If I admit to weakness, will he simply get rid of me? Should I disobey him, if it means not admitting failure? Do I admit to being weak, in order to follow his commands?

                The first blow strikes me across the thighs, and the second hits diagonally across my shoulder blades. The third blow lands across my back and stings enough for me to shift forward, although I make no sound. The fourth lands across my buttocks, and the fifth strikes my thighs again.

                And then he stops, waiting for me.

                I say nothing.

                My mind races.

                Still I say nothing.

                “Zero?” he prompts. But I am determined. I will not show him weakness. He can strike me as many times as he chooses. I will not break. He steps around and looks at my face. I clench my jaw stubbornly, but I cannot meet his eyes. “Zero, discipline level one,” he says softly, and the pain that lances through my head and down my spine is such a surprise that I gasp before suppressing it. It’s the lowest level, only as much as a strong headache. This is the first time Zeke has used the chip to discipline me. He hasn’t used it for anything, actually, and I’ve credited it to the fact that he’s a new owner. But, apparently, he wants to show me that he’s serious.

                Like all disciplines, the pain lasts for ten seconds. During that time, my owner doesn’t move to strike me, instead waiting for the chip to finish. When the pain ends and my shoulders sag, he makes me look at him again.

                “I’m sorry for pushing you so hard,” he says, and looks genuinely pained to be hurting me like this. If he’s not enjoying it, then he must be testing me or training me. But I don’t understand. What could having me admit failure possibly teach me? I’m far more familiar with impossible tests, and I can’t help but think this is one of them. “We’ll try again. Five strikes, and then you are to say, ‘I beg you to stop.’ Do you understand?” he asks and I nod.

                The strikes come as they did before, only now they overlap with the previous hits, crossing them in places, falling nearly on top of them in others. When the fifth strike lands, I grit my teeth and again say nothing.

                He waits longer this time. I don’t think he likes having to use the chip to discipline me. Most owners prefer not to use the chip in public, because it shows weakness and a lack of training. But I haven’t heard of one that prefers not to use it at all.

                “Zero, discipline level three,” he says, and the pain surges again. It’s stronger this time, like a pulse of electricity from the base of my neck to my spine. I wrap my hands around the wire keeping me upright and grit my teeth.

                We repeat the cycle again when the pain ends, with Zeke coming to stand in front of me. This time, he says, “I want you to repeat after me. ‘I beg you to stop.’ Say it,” he demands.

                I open my mouth, but the words stick in my throat. I take a deep breath, and say, “I beg you to stop,” in a soft voice. I can’t make myself say it any louder. Still, my owner smiles.

                “Good,” Zeke praises immediately, and it’s a relief that he doesn’t recriminate me. “Good job, that’s perfect. A little louder next time, maybe, but we can work up to that. Now, we’re going to do this again, and you’ll say those five words after the fifth strike. Understand?”

                He waits for me to nod before moving behind me. He hits me again, and the blows land more quickly this time. I can feel each of the ten previous lashes as he adds the remaining five. There’s a light sweat over my body now, and my arms are starting to ache, although I know it will be hours longer before my shoulders dislocate. My breath comes in short pants, and my head aches from the discipline with the chip. Still, I’m nowhere near my breaking point.

                Zeke finishes his strikes and pauses again, waiting for me. I feel the uncomfortable anxiety that always accompanies disobeying an order. I fight it down. I won’t admit weakness. I won’t give him a reason to get rid of me. I won’t fail this test.

                Zeke sighs, then says, “Zero, discipline level five.”

                The pain sears down my spine this time, and I jerk against my bonds. I pant and writhe with pain, unable to keep my body still as the shocks wrack through me. When it fades, I sag against my bonds, just barely able to keep my weight on my toes.

                He moves away from me then, and I know it’s too much to hope that he’s ready to let me down. I worry that he’s prepared to use more effective methods of discipline on me and I fear what tool of torture he might utilize now. When he returns to my line of vision, there’s a bottle of water in his hands. He uncaps it and puts it against my lips, lets me take a few deep sips while his other hand holds the back of my head steady. The cool liquid feels good against my throat and distracts me from the aches in my body. Then he recaps it and puts it aside. He stands with me for several moments, his hand gripping my shoulder at the pulse-point, and waits for my heart to slow. When it finally does, he stands so that he’s directly in my line of sight. He reaches up and runs his fingers along my jaw, settles them at cupping my face. I almost flinch away, but the touch is gentle.

                “How can I prove to you that this isn’t a trick?” he asks me. “The point of this is trust… and I feel like I might be doing more damage than good,” he says, and seems genuinely upset. My anxiety level rises. I can’t process this. All the signs are there that he’s being honest – direct eye contact, steady breathing, unchanged repetition – but I can’t understand what he has to gain from this. If it’s not a test, then what the hell is it?

                “Once more,” he tells me. “I’ll give you five more lashes, and then you’ll beg me to stop. If you don’t, I’ll punish you with the chip again. But after that, we’ll be done. I won’t risk harming you by firing the chip at any higher a level,” he says. If he continues with this pattern, the next discipline will be at level seven, and then nine. I doubt that it will be enough to damage me, but I’m not confident enough to tell him that.

                He moves behind me again, and I’m hit with five more lashes. They’re slower this time, and he focuses mostly on my ass, landing each of the blows between the curve of my rear and the highest part of my thighs. His blows specifically avoid the tailbone, which would be the easiest target for damage in that area of my body. Neither does he strike my kidneys, which are unprotected if he would strike either side above my hips, nor does he lash out at the sensitive area of my hip, where the scars from a pulse rifle are evidence of a weak point. But he focuses on causing pain instead of damage, and the fresh agony joins the ache of the other lashes. I note that I haven’t felt the wetness of blood since he started, and realize how careful Zeke must be to avoid breaking the skin even when the strikes overlap.

                This is it. Five more lashes, a level seven punishment, and I’ll have succeeded. I will not break, and he won’t have any reason to sell me.

                He gives me ample time to speak. He even goes as far as to place his hand on my shoulder and whisper, “Come on, Zero, it’s alright.” But I will not be swayed. I’m stronger than that.

                Finally, he says, “Zero, discipline level seven.”

                Discipline at level seven or eight is a bit odd. Those levels are strong enough that there’s no containing the reaction to them, even for someone as well-trained as I am. At the same time, they don’t create the same amount of involuntary spasms and muscle contractions as levels nine and ten. So while I’m not in as much pain as when Zeke initially activated my chip, I am unable to contain a noise of distress when the searing pain shoots from my forehead all the way down my spine. My eyes open wide, and I see Zeke take a step closer to me, as though he would stop the punishment. Not that he can. Once it’s activated, nothing will stop the chip until it is finished.

                I manage to contain myself to a hiss after my initial outburst. I can only hope that Zeke won’t hold it against me. My body is feeling the effects of the combined punishments, both physical and from the chip. Pain lances through my head and I wrap my hands around wire, feel the metal cut into my palms. The sensation helps ground me from the pain in my head, even as it sends waves of pain coursing through my body, making my fingers and toes clench involuntarily. I’m so worn from the earlier punishments that this one seems to go on forever.

                When the pain finally ends, I sag against my bonds. For a moment, my feet won’t hold me, and my full weight comes down on my wrists, twisting my shoulders painfully. It’s only for a moment while my feet shuffle, desperately trying to get my legs back under me.

                “You’re okay,” Zeke says gently, and his hands come to rest on my hips, holding them steady until I manage to ground myself. I realize, after a moment, that my hips are one of the few places left that he can touch me without causing pain. My skin is covered in a cold sweat, and I shiver at the feel of Zeke’s hands on me. “Take a couple breaths,” he says, his hands still resting on my hips. I try to obey, let my eyes slip closed and focus on breathing. My body hurts. My head aches. And I’m exhausted.

                “Okay, that’s all,” he says gently after a few minutes, and he releases my hips. The disappointment in his voice is clear. He says, “We’ll try this again another time,” and I realize that I’ve made a mistake.


	11. The Break Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is beta'd by IntrepidEm, and as always she is AMAZING for looking this over for me. I also got some great feedback from PuckThePlayer, and I wanted to give her a shout out for all her help. She really gave me a kick in the pants when I needed it. 
> 
> I have, like, the absolute best readers. You guys are awesome! Thanks so much for all your feedback. As always, please drop me a line if you liked it/loved it/hated it/ wanted to make out with it. Thanks!

Chapter 11 - Zero

 

                He moves to the control panel on the wall and cues the winch to begin lowering me. Before my heels can fully hit the floor, I say, “Wait. Don’t release me.”

                Zeke’s brow creases with confusion, but he halts my descent.

                “It’s alright,” he tells me. “We’ll try again later. I should have known this was too much to ask of you so soon.”

                I shake my head. “I can do it. Give me another chance. I won’t fail you.”

                His frown deepens.

                “This isn’t a test, Zero. Either you trust me or you don’t.”

                “I… do,” I tell him, but I can’t hide my hesitation, and even he looks skeptical. “I’m trying,” I repeat honestly. “I don’t understand what you gain out of this or what you want me to learn, but I can be obedient and… I don’t think you’ll betray my trust.”

                He takes that in for a moment, and I can only hope that he believes me, because I don’t have anything else to try. Finally, he presses a button, and the winch returns me to my former height.

                “If we do this and you fail, you’ll be disciplined at level nine,” he tells me, for which I am already aware. Level nine is a serious punishment, and one that I won’t be able to recover from immediately. I don’t fear the pain. Any such aversion to harm has been drilled out of me. The vulnerability that comes after a level nine or ten punishment, however, is something I’d like to avoid at all costs. “Are you sure you don’t want to try again on another day?”

                “No.” I’d much rather face level nine discipline than earn any more disappointed looks from Zeke. There’s too great a risk that I’ll be sold. Weakness should be avoided, but being sold is a death sentence.

                He hesitates still, until I think that maybe he won’t give me another chance. Finally, I hear him moving away from the wall panel and retrieving the cane.

                “You must know that this is going to hurt,” he cautions, with the implication that I could still back out.

                “I can take it,” I respond. He frowns.

                “That’s kind of the opposite of the point of this,” he says, but I can already hear that he’s resolved to try again. He warns, “I’m going to start,” and then the first blow falls immediately after. I’m so exhausted that it makes me stumble forward, caught only by my bound wrists. The second strike lands while I’m trying to find my feet, and it knocks me off balance. I can’t get my feet under me, and the next strike hits me while I hang. It rocks me, my feet scraping on the floor. Zeke pauses, and I make an effort to get back on my feet, but I can’t manage. When I stop trying, he hits me with the last two strikes in quick succession.

                I’m nearing the end of what I can handle. Between the physical pain, the chip’s effects, and the mental stress of disobeying, I’m nearing my limit. If he fires the chip again, I’ll pass out.

                When he finishes and pauses to wait, I open my mouth. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever begged for anything. The first time that I’ve ever had a reason to, since I never had hope before that anyone would show me mercy. When my voice comes out, it’s so soft that I wonder if Zeke will even hear it.

                “I beg you to stop.”

                And then I hold my breath, hoping that I’ve made the right choice.

                Zeke moves to the wall immediately and releases the winch, which begins to slowly lower me. He’s back at my side before I drop more than an inch, the cane forgotten on the floor as he guides me down. I go to my knees, and he helps maneuver me until I’m lying on my side. When my shackles hit the floor, he uses the keypad on the wall to unlock the magnetics, then he slips them off me and returns the winch to the ceiling.

                “You did so well,” he tells me, and I let the praise roll over me, let it dull the pain in my back. I’m unused to hearing anything in response to a success, so praise causes a strange feeling in me. “I know how hard that was. I promise, it will get easier. But I’m so pleased with you.” He’s holding the water bottle out to me again, and I take it with an unsteady hand. After a few sips, I feel a bit better, if still somewhat fuzzy.

                Zeke lets me sit and sip my water for several minutes. Slowly, the pain in my back fades to a sharp ache. The trembling diminishes to a general shaky feeling. My body cools, and the sweat dries on my skin. Still, my head is buzzing. This whole situation is unique in my experience. Zeke is sitting only inches away from me, watching me for signs of- what? Trauma? Rebellion? Insanity? I fight to keep my expression blank, to keep him from seeing any cracks in my mask. I don’t understand this. I don’t know what he wants from me and I can’t process things while he’s sitting right beside me.

                “Is there anything else you need?” Zeke asks, and he’s practically hovering over top of me. He’s watched me for the past few hours, and I’ve come apart under his hands. He’s watched me sink to my very lowest. Even now, he’s watching as I grovel on the bottom.

                And, suddenly, I need to get away.

                “I should check the ship’s course,” I tell him. It’s something that I’ve been doing since I resumed my normal routine. I like to check for potential threats on the radar several times a day, to make sure we don’t veer too close. There’s also an alarm if a threat comes within range, but I prefer to catch them ahead of time. I checked the ship’s navigation this morning, so it won’t need done again for a few hours. But Zeke rarely follows me into the cockpit, and it’s the only place I can think of where he’ll give me space.

                Zeke frowns.

                “Can it wait? I’d prefer to have you settle for a bit.”

                “I should check it now.”

                “I can check it, if you think it’s important.”

                “I need to go,” I tell him, because I don’t know how else to explain the need to get away, to have a moment alone to process what’s happened. I feel like I’m going to crack if I don’t get a moment to take stock of the situation. “Please,” I add, and leave it at that. If Zeke lets me go or continues to hover, nothing else I can say will change it.

                Zeke gives me a piercing stare. Finally, he asks, “Can you even walk there by yourself?”

                It’s a valid question, considering only minutes ago I was on the verge of collapse. I’m recovering quickly, though, and I doubt that a short walk is beyond my capabilities. So I nod, and Zeke doesn’t look pleased but I can tell that he’s resigned.

                “Check it, and then come find me when you’ve had enough time,” he instructs. “I’d like you to shower and then rest. But if you need a moment to… to check our ship, then that’s okay. Just don’t push yourself.”

                He helps me get to my feet, makes sure I’m steady before releasing me. I resist the impulse to rub at my wrists, instinctually hiding the weakness. They’re sore, but the cuffs distributed the weight well enough that they’re not damaged.

                Zeke steps back, and he doesn’t seem entirely happy with letting me go. Still, he gives me space, lets me shuffle on my own out the door. I hear him putting away his tools as I leave, smell the wafting scent of alcohol follow me into the hall. I’m not surprised that Zeke sanitizes his tools, as his approach to domination seems nearly professional.

                The walk to the cockpit happens as a blur. I’m already inside, staring at readouts of our progress, by the time I realize that I’ve stopped. I’m cold, and my hands have a slight tremor when I click on the screens. The information that scrolls across them is nearly identical to what I’d seen this morning. Actually, I realize as I click them closed again that I didn’t need to come all the way here, that I could have accessed this information from the control panel in the punishment room. I only need the tools in the cockpit if I want to change course or scan a wider range than normal, but then the trip itself is just an excuse to give me a moment of solitude. I need it, need to have just a moment where I don’t have to analyze Zeke’s intentions or my own reactions.

                I take a deep breath. Here, in the silence and the privacy of the cockpit, I let myself feel all the aches and pains that have been inflicted. I catalogue injuries and estimate my capabilities. I let my mind rewind through my interactions with Zeke. I still don’t understand his motivations. However, I realize that the task he set for me was straightforward, not a game of duplicity as I had imagined. I realize that, despite my struggles, I was successful in completing the task he set for me. I focus on that.

                Not a failure. Not a disappointment. Simply a mission accomplished.

                I step back out into the hallway, unwilling to push Zeke’s leniency by lingering. My back is beginning to burn, and I’d like to wash the salt from my skin before it aggravates my welts.

                Suddenly, the world tips and I stumble into a wall.

                I turn instinctively back toward the cockpit, wondering what could have possibly hit us that I didn’t see on the radar only a moment ago. But my legs won’t cooperate, and I only manage to fall in the direction of the cockpit. As I go to my knees, I realize that none of the alarms are sounding, none of the furniture has moved.

                And I realize that there is no attack. It’s not the ship that’s moving, my body has simply stopped obeying my commands. I push uselessly at the wall, succeeding only in pushing my body onto its side. Frustrated, I punch at the wall, but even that lacks energy and creates only a soft sound. I can barely hear it over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.

                I don’t notice Zeke approaching until he’s only a few steps from me. “Damnit,” I hear him curse. I make another futile effort to get to my feet, but he’s already found me. “I should have trusted my instincts. I knew better than to leave you alone.”

                “I’m sorry, sir,” I apologize, struggling to make my body respond. I can only hope that I haven’t undone all my earlier effort, that he won’t see me kneeling here and decide that I’m too much trouble to keep. “I’ll do better, just give me a moment.”

                “Stop,” he barks. “None of that. You don’t need to do better, you need to let me take care of you. Your body has sustained a lot of trauma, and while none of it is permanently damaging, it could easily send you into shock. It probably already has, from the look of things. Now stop being stubborn and let me take care of you.”

                I look at him, trying to read his eyes as he kneels beside me. In my current state, even unarmed he’s a threat.

                But he gives me back a steady look.

                “It’s okay. You can let go.”

                And just like that, I feel my resistance drop. I sag against him, prepared to accept whatever he plans to do to me.

                He helps me stand, putting my arm over his shoulders and his arm loops around my waist. It rubs against one of the welts on my back, but it seems unintentional and unavoidable. He leads me back to the master bedroom, which seems farther from this side of the ship than it did earlier. Once there, he takes me straight on through to the bathroom, where he’s already filled the bathtub with steaming, crystal clear water. I didn’t hear him pass the cockpit to come to this side of the ship, and I wonder if I had been too disoriented to notice or if he cued the bathtub to fill from the panel in the punishment room.

                The tub is over two feet deep, and I’m shaky enough that Zeke keeps his hands on me while I sink into the water. The heat immediately dissipates the cold and tremors that I’ve been feeling. The water is soothing enough that I feel very little pain, even though I’m sitting normally, with my back and thighs against the seats built in to the tub. I watch as Zeke pours something that looks like salt into the tub, which disappears as it hits the water.

                “It’s just to sooth the ache and help with the healing process,” he assures me. “It’s still going to bruise, but this takes some of the inflammation out of the welts.” I nod, although I’m not sure my response is needed. Zeke puts the cap back on the bottle and sets it aside, then puts a rag and another bottle on the side of the bath. I can’t make myself reach for them, not without a direct order. I watch as Zeke sheds his clothes and joins me in the water. He doesn’t recline in one of the seats, and instead comes to kneel in front of me.

                “Let me wash you?” he asks, and doesn’t wait for me to nod before picking up the rag and bottle. He uses the contents of the bottle like soap, but they don’t lather or sting, so I have to assume that it’s designed for someone with wounds. I have to wonder if this is one of his kinks. It’s the second time he’s bathed me, and I’m not sure if it’s because he wants to, or because he thinks I need it, or because there’s simply no one else to do it and he thinks that it needs to be done.

                He keeps his hands gentle and impersonal as he washes me, focusing on places where sweat has collected, like my neck and arms. He pays special attention to my wrists, where the cuffs left bruises from strain, and the firm but gentle pressure he uses feels almost more like a massage than a cleaning. When he gets to my back, he skims the rag over my skin, just barely using enough pressure to be felt. If I had any doubts that my punishment is over, his treatment now would have put them at ease.

                My body feels too light as it floats in the water, and almost impossibly heavy when Zeke guides me out. The cold air hits me first and my skin prickles, but the shaky feeling doesn’t return. Zeke wraps me immediately in a large towel and it helps stave off my shivers, however impractical it is to get me dry. There’s a perfectly useful air-dryer on the other side of the room, but I don’t dare to remind him of that as Zeke pats me dry and then sets the towel aside.

                “Go lie on the bed, face down,” he instructs as he dries himself quickly. I nod and obey, but I feel a tremor of fear run through me. After all the trials today, I don’t feel prepared to handle another lesson in sex.

                Zeke is only a few moments behind me, and enters as I’m still getting settled. There’s a bottle in his hands that I assume is lubricant, and I feel my stomach plummet. Maybe the earlier punishment was only the first half of my lesson. Maybe this is the real torment.

                Zeke sits beside me on the bed, and I clench my fists and bury my face in the sheets as I hear him pouring liquid onto his hands. The welts from earlier feel tight and inflamed now that the water isn’t soothing them. When Zeke’s hand strokes over my back, I jerk at the cooling sensation that spreads across my skin.

                “Sorry, I should have warned you,” he apologizes, but his hands continue to smear the soothing lotion across my skin. “This is going to help numb the pain so that you can rest. It won’t take away all of it, but it should give you a little relief.”

                I hardly bother to wonder why he would hurt me just to sooth the pain later. It’s too much effort to understand his logic, and I’m starting to think that it’s a losing battle.

                “You did well earlier,” he continues softly, his hands still moving down my back, working their way methodically toward the wounds on my butt and thighs. I let his voice flow over me, focusing on his words and the calming touch of his hands. “You took the pain without complaint or question. You trusted me enough to obey my commands, and you’re trusting me now to look after you. I need you to help me build that trust, so that I can trust you to tell me what you need. I want you to understand how pleased I am with how far you’ve come.”

                I’m not used to praise on this level. I don’t really understand it, because I failed in my task four times before I was able to obey him, which is not praiseworthy performance in my experience. But his words feature no reprimands and his tone is pleased, and I let that wash over me. I can worry about the specifics later.

                When he finishes and caps the lotion, I expect for him to leave. Instead, he lays down in front of me and guides me to roll to my side, so that I’m facing him. He’s taller than me by several inches, and when he moves close to me he’s able to tuck my head under his chin and my feet just barely twine with his. I expect for this to turn sexual, as I’ve been expecting all along. I anticipate him pulling my chin up and kissing me, but he simply pulls the covers over us and uses the audio recognition system to turn off the lights.

                In the dark, his body presses along the line of my own, his arm drapes casually over my hip. The heat of his form is comforting, and I can hardly feel the sting of the lashes at my back.

                And I find myself asking, “What are we doing?” because it’s all so bizarre and so far from where we were only a few hours ago.

                “Aftercare,” he says in way of explanation.

                “I don’t understand.”

                “It’s…” he tries, and I feel his hand tug me closer as he tries to put into words this philosophy. “If you think of earlier as a test – and it wasn’t, but if that’s how you need to think of it – then this is the reward for succeeding. Only that’s not a terribly accurate description, because this is what you would have gotten if you failed as well. The fact is, you can’t fail. Whatever you do, whatever your actions are, they’re simply a product of how I’ve trained you. So, if you think of earlier as physical training, as an obstacle course, then this is bonding time. This is training you to trust me to take care of you.”

                And maybe it’s simply because I’m exhausted and confused from our earlier session, but that almost makes sense.


	12. Petir from BloodSports Arena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is beta'd by IntrepidEm, and as always she is AMAZING for looking this over for me. I also got some great feedback from PuckThePlayer, and I wanted to give her a shout out for all her help. She really gave me a kick in the pants when I needed it.
> 
> I have, like, the absolute best readers. You guys are awesome! Thanks so much for all your feedback. As always, please drop me a line if you liked it/loved it/hated it/ wanted to make out with it. Thanks!

Zeke

                Two weeks after plucking Zero from space, I meet with my first representative of the Leash organization. For some reason, my mind has pictured something of a pasty-skinned nerd, possibly also a slave to this organization, with some sort of manual on the care and maintenance of assets. It is far too ambitious of a dream.

                The man I find walking in to my docking bay is obviously an owner. He’s dark-haired and green-eyed, wearing a well-pressed suit that is a few years out of date and plenty of flashy, inelegant jewelry pieces. It is pretty easy to pin him as a working-class crook who likes to pretend at being as rich as the men he sells to. It’s so plebeian that it’s nearly a stereotype. He’s flanked on either side by tall, blonde men that seem an awful lot like hired thugs, but are more likely his assets.

                They’ve come by jump-ship from the nearest satellite. A jump-ship is a very small craft that can usually fit up to six people, and is used to make leaps between satellites and ships. They can move at very fast speeds, but they aren’t viable for long distances. They can’t maintain strong enough shielding to deal with space-debris for a prolonged period, so they mostly shuttle people between larger ships and satellites. This one is a newly released model, but of a brand that’s not terribly well-known.

                He’s talking in low, growling tones to the two men behind him as I approach. His thick Slavic accent does nothing to help my impression of him, and I’ve spent enough time in Europe on Earth and the European Satellites to know that his accent is either being seriously dramatized for effect or completely fake.

                Zero keeps a step behind me, trailing without hiding. He’s naked again, because the promised trip to Satellite 19 for clothes never happened, and I didn’t think it would be a good idea to dress him in the ratty, cutoff sleeping pants that he’s been wearing recently. All of my other clothes hang off of him like a gown. I figure it will look better to have him naked. If Zero is upset by this, he makes no indication. Not like the loud and repeated indications he gave me that he would like to be armed.

                It isn’t that I don’t trust Zero with a weapon, and I’m more than certain he can handle one. However, if I’m trying to sell the idea that I’ve converted him into a pleasure-slave, then giving him a weapon probably isn’t the best idea. When I asked if I should expect violence, Zero admitted that his last owner had only seldom met with other members of the Leash, but there was never any kind of tension. I assume that Zero is being over cautious, but I also put a pulse-gun in my boot. If Zero had anywhere to feasibly hide it, I would at least give him a blade. For security purposes.

                The trainer gives me a smile that is half sneer when he greets me. His eyes run over my body as I approach. I’ve worn fitted, artificially aged blue jeans, a long sleeved, button-down shirt, and a tightly fitted vest that accentuates the breadth of my chest and the width of my shoulders. Because to hell with him, I can be comfortable and fashionable on my own ship, and I know I look good in it.

                “Petir Rozovsky,” he introduces himself, and over emphasizes the second syllable of his name.

                “Ezekiel P-Price,” I respond, and his smile widens as I stumble over my surname. I’m so used to using an alias that I almost can’t form the words to reveal my own identity. It’s obvious that Petir knows that name, knows how much weight and history is attached to it. He knows that even by meeting with him, I’ve given him an edge over me. Fortunately, he has no idea how much backing I have as well.

                As we reach out to shake hands, I see his eyes glance behind me, and surprise runs across his face. I wonder if it’s because Zero is naked - but they sent him to me naked, so it shouldn’t be a faux pas to leave him that way on my ship. Something else, then? Does he know my slave?

                While he glances over Zero, I take a quick look at the men he’s brought with him. They’re fully dressed, but then again they would have departed the satellite from a public dock, and nudity would have been noticed. Their outfits are identical, with black, fitted T-shirts and tight, tan cargo pants. If it weren’t for their blue eyes, I could almost believe that they are clones. They’re both heavily muscled and of average height, although one is an inch or so taller than the other. They look like thugs, and I have to assume that they’re combat assets. I can’t imagine them being anything else.

                “Welcome to the Long Leash,” Petir says, and his smile is too hungry to be friendly. “You join an illustrious group of people who know how to enjoy the finer things in life. Before anything else, I am giving you this.”

                He holds out a black box, small enough to fit in my palm. There’s a screen on it, and when I pick it up the screen automatically turns on and displays the word “Zero.” When I press the screen, it displays the number code that I set weeks ago for Zero’s chip. There are other links on the screen, but I pull my attention back to Petir, who has already resumed talking.

                “This is your key,” he continues, his voice dripping with an accent so thick that I have to repress a cringe. As a man of many fluent and accurate accents, I find his lazy imitation personally offensive. “Is like membership badge for the Leash. It only works for you. If you want new slave, you hold button up to slave and get background info. If you buy slave, info shows up here. GPS tracker, means you always know where your asset is. And this piece also can invoke the discipline commands in the chip, whether or not you’re within hearing distance. We give new members a couple weeks before we give these out. Want to make sure you’re trustworthy before we give you the whole thing.”

                “I-… Thank you,” I say, while my mind races with possibilities. A remote control for the chip- a hand-held kill switch? No wonder we’d never had any success rescuing any of these men. As soon as they went off course, their owner would just kill them and be done with it.

                “It keeps everything for you, and in anyone else’s hands it’s just a piece of plastic. Untraceable, un-hackable, completely safe. You get background papers with your boy? Burn it. It’s all in here now.”

                “Convenient.”

                “It’s your wallet now, too. Your first asset, you buy with cash. Very risky. Could be followed. So now, you filter all your cash through one of four dealers – I’d recommend myself, you understand, over my colleagues,” he says, with a smile that’s all greed. He’s only been here five minutes and already he’s trying to get money out of me. “The assets, they are very expensive, yes? So, we make it easier to handle the money. We take six zeros off of the amount when we convert it, makes it more like pocket change. We call it coins, and it’s the only way to buy assets once you’re a member.”

                “And the first buy?”

                “Was just a taste, to make sure you’re trustworthy. Make sure your asset doesn’t end up halfway across the galaxy in the wrong hands. Now, when we convert the coins, there is a small fee, of course. We run it through The BloodSports Arena, I’m sure you’ve heard of it?”

                I have, of course, so I nod. It’s a licensed fighting ring that specializes in betting. It also, supposedly, runs illegal death-matches, drugs, and prostitution. But since housed on a ship that’s half the size of a satellite and constantly jumping jurisdictions, it’s nearly impossible to pin down the illegal activity. I’m not terribly surprised that it’s mixed up in the Leash.

                “We can make it look like you took a few bad bets,” he says easily. “At a 20% fee, of course.”

                I nod my head noncommittally, because I’m not sure I want to work with this man. I didn’t miss his comment that there are three other dealers who offer similar services. I might be better off going to one of them. Especially since, hearing the conversion rate for currency in this club, I’m not sure I’m wealthy enough to make this venture without batting an eye. I’ll have to be careful, or I could easily use a suspicious amount of money, and have to deal with my accountants making inquiries.

                “Would you like to move this to the café?” I ask him, hoping to move away from this topic. I slip the key into my pocket and gesture to the hall. “There are refreshments set up.”

                I don’t mention that I’ve set up the plates of gourmet sandwiches and cookies myself. Zero, as I’ve learned over the past few weeks, is the opposite of helpful in the kitchen. Instead of facing embarrassment because Zero isn’t equipped to handle the task of hospitality, I decided to set the whole thing up myself before our guests arrived, so that I could be sure that it met my standards.

                The café that I lead them to is the modern-day equivalent of an Earth-style bistro. In a ship designed to host more than a dozen people lavishly, the café is one of my favorite features. The room it’s featured in is a large, high-domed space. Plants and flowers grow freely from hydroponic containers, flowing out of their potting and across the room. There’s a viewing window above us, so the room constantly looks like a night on Earth under the brightest stars and constellations. The tables, politely spaced around the room, are made of molded iron and glazed with a white porcelain finish. They’re extremely heavy and impractical, but they do give the room an air of authenticity.

                I’ve set up tea and coffee along with finger-sandwiches and delicacies on a table just inside the room. We seat ourselves, and I serve coffee to myself and Petir, and he helps himself to the food. His men stand behind him, only a few steps away. They are in an identical position over his right and left shoulder, both with straight backs, their feet braced wide, their arms held straight, and their wrists crossed in front of their abdomens. I glance behind myself to find that Zero has adopted the same stance.

                “So!” Petir says around a cookie. “So many things to discuss. First, how are you liking your role? Is the power not intoxicating?”

                “It’s definitely more than I was expecting,” I admit. “But Zero has far exceeded my expectations.”

                “You call him Zero, eh?” Petir shrugs. “Is not very creative name, but –eh– is your slave.”

                “I’m not sure I understand,” I respond, stirring my tea slowly as a distraction. Petir’s face lights up gleefully.

                “So he didn’t tell you then? Ah, your boy keeps his secrets close then. You know he’s a clone, yeah?” I nod, and restrain the impulse to glance at Zero. I don’t like to be caught unaware like this. “And you’ve heard about his background, with the scientists?”

                “Yes, I’ve heard that he was created as a fighter, trained to be lethal. Hoping to clone them as adults, I think he said, but the project failed.”

                “They sold that whole batch to the Leash after that, to recoup losses. Do you know what they call the first group of clones? The ones that aren’t actually clones, because there isn’t an original that’s being copied?”

                “You mean the first group of genetically-defined infants? No, I hadn’t thought about it before.”

                “You call them zeros,” he says, grinning from ear-to-ear. It’s not as bad of a revelation as I had been fearing. I’m not happy Zero gave me his… title, instead of his name. But then, given his background, I’m not sure he has a better name to give me. Either way, we’ve both grown comfortable with the name. I don’t see a need to change it. “It’s very rare to find them, since genetic data is so expensive and usually gets used so many times. But the first group is a baseline group, and then the first batch is a one or a first generation copy and so on. So when we suddenly get over twenty dark-eyed, base-line clones, they get labeled as the Zeros.” He stares over my shoulder for a moment, and I see his eyes run down Zero’s form. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of these. Two years, maybe three. Could be the last of the Zeros that you have there, my friend.”

                He contemplates that for a moment, nibbling at a sandwich, before visibly pulling his attention away from my asset and back to me.

                “So, what type of slave are you looking for?”

                “I’m not sure, really,” I hedge, “I just got my first, and I haven’t had much time to work with him. I don’t know what to look for in the next one.”

                “What are you wanting him to do? Is where you start searching,” he says, and his eyes flick back to the two men behind him, and I realize suddenly that they are show pieces. That these aren’t just body guards, they are products that he’s trying to move.

                “I’m not really sure. I don’t even know what the categories mean. What’s the difference between them?”

                “Is easy!” he proclaims with a smile and a wave. “I explain. It goes like this: combat and covert are straight forward - they’re your soldiers and assassins. Pleasure and domestic make your life easy – you fuck one and the other takes care of everything else. Scholars are a big investment – they’re any slave that has training. Doctors, lawyers, accountants. Anything like that.”

                “How do you manage to chip a doctor?” I wonder. “I mean, someone would have to notice.”

                “Ah, you’re working the equation backwards, my friend. You don’t grab a doctor and chip him, you grab a nobody and make him a doctor. You see? Is big cost, but no risk.”

                “But how do you keep him from getting away, or contacting someone?”

                “Oh,” he smiles, like it’s nothing to worry about. “You break him first, of course. Give him six months or so with a trainer, then they know better than to run. Is cheaper to educate them through cyber-classes, but a trained slave can go to university, no risk. Even if they do make a call, we monitor the Department for possible asset alerts. When they get a call out to the area, we just press a button, and all they find is a corpse.”

                The fact that they have a hack on the Department communication system doesn’t surprise me. It’s impossible to shield every call that comes in, and some of them are on public lines. But the fact that they can kill a slave from anywhere, at any time, once again chills me.

                “That’s why they call it the Leash,” he explains. “You see?”

                “No, I don’t get it.”

                “The chip is the collar. The key is the long leash. No matter how far they go, they can’t get away from your grasp.”

                “Ah.” It makes sense, in a dark way. It also makes a sickened feeling crawl into the pit of my stomach. Because if the assets can’t get away, then my success is literally Zero’s only hope to ever have freedom.

                I shake myself. I can’t think about that now. I know that I’ve got a limited amount of time with Petir, and I need to get as much information as possible out of him.

                “I’m hoping to make an impression on the other owners,” I admit to him. “I was thinking about entering the Competition.”

                “Make some money by winning? Show off your trainer skills?” he questions with a sly smile. “Prizes are pretty good, competition very steep.”

                “That’s the idea, yes.”

                “I like you, so I tell you about the Competition, yes?” he says, his voice taking on a note of self-importance. Apparently, he’s being benevolent by giving me this information. And here I’d thought that he’d been sent here to educate me on the workings of the Leash and its Competition. (Mentally, I want to roll my eyes, but I try to keep my face appropriately grateful.) “The five categories are also the competitions. Domestic, combat, covert, pleasure, and scholar. When you first start, can only have six slaves. Five slaves to compete with, and one extra for… unrelated interests,” he says, with a leer that tells me I probably shouldn’t ask what they do with the non-competing asset. “After five years here, you get twelve assets – ten competitors and two extras.” He pauses and grins. “Of course, if you win the Competition you can have as many slaves as you like. I’ve won two years already. Perhaps this year will be a third!”

                “That’s an amazing accomplishment,” I respond evenly, knowing that it would be all too easy to damage this one’s pride and make an enemy of him. “I’m happy they sent such an experienced owner to help me with my training. I’m afraid I don’t understand much about this Competition at all.”

                He preens, and I know I’ve taken the right tact with him.


	13. A Lesson from Petir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is beta'd by IntrepidEm, and as always she is AMAZING for looking this over for me. I also got some great feedback from PuckThePlayer, and I wanted to give her a shout out for all her help. She really gave me a kick in the pants when I needed it.
> 
> I have, like, the absolute best readers. You guys are awesome! Thanks so much for all your feedback. As always, please drop me a line if you liked it/loved it/hated it/wanted to make out with it. Thanks!

Zeke

 

                “Alright, so you get five slaves to compete,” Petir explains. We’re still seated in the café, and he’s sipping his coffee and chewing a croissant as he speaks. His two slaves wait patiently behind him, and I can feel Zero’s presence just behind my right shoulder. “You can compete each asset in two different categories. It’s easier with ten assets, so each one can focus on only one category. Is nearly impossible to train an asset for two different categories and get good place in both. Better off just doing five categories and skipping the entrance fee for the others.”

                “But doesn’t that hurt my chances of winning the overall Competition?”

                He waves his hand dismissively.

                “Is nearly impossible in first five years! Has never happened!” His denials sound truthful, but I also have to remember that he’s planning to compete as well, meaning the information he’s feeding me might have an ulterior motive. If he plans to win the overall Competition, he might be trying to convince me not to compete in all the categories so that I’m not a threat to him. Or it might be as hard as he’s saying.

                “But it would make it harder to win?”

                “Yah,” he says with a shrug. “The aim is to take the best place in all the categories. Any category you don’t enter, you share the bottom place with everyone who didn’t enter. So you could win if you took very high place in a couple categories and didn’t enter the rest, or you could win by getting okay ranks in all the categories. I’ve seen both happen. But you don’t get paid for anything but the top five spots, so you’d be wasting an awful lot of money on that.”

                He hasn’t made it a secret that money is his top priority in this situation. I’ve got enough tact not to tell him that I don’t really give a shit about losing money on this. I have to bite my tongue on telling him what a piece of shit I think he is too.

                He takes a second to contemplate me again, that aggravating grin still plastered on his face. He says again, “I like you. I give you tip. The scholars are the most expensive, pleasure have the most competition, so forget about those. I can sell you a covert slave, maybe another combat.” Then he peers over my shoulder again. “Could maybe even be persuaded to take this one off of your hands. Give you a little discount. My boys haven’t competed yet. They’ll take a low place this year, train a few more years, maybe have a winner. I train all my boys in the BloodSports Arena. They know what they’re doing.”

                He waits, and I nod noncommittally, which makes him frown. I think he’s probably starting to see how little interest I have in his products. But I won’t give him an outright no, because I can’t imagine he’ll stay long after the money disappears, and I’m hoping to get more information out of him. What I’ve gained so far has been invaluable. Unfortunately, now that he’s finished eating, he seems to be much more interested in making a deal and leaving.

                So I ask him, “Is the Leash’s competition similar to what happens in Bloodsports? How do I know that the training your men have there will be useful in this competition?”

                “Fighting is very, very similar for the combats!” he says with a grin. “Very straight forward, single elimination, tournament style. No weapons, hand-to-hand combat only.”

                “And they kill an asset every round?” It’s an obvious question, considering how illegal the competition is, and how closely related it seems to be to the BloodSports Arena, which is known for illegal death-matches. Could I send a slave into battle, if there’s a 50/50 chance he’d die? And Zero… Petir has been eyeing him up, which he wouldn’t do if Zero weren’t a valuable fighter. I might need to send him into the competition, especially if I have a limited number of spaces available for competitors. I’m not sure I could send Zero into such a match.

                Zero, who’s standing behind me, weaponless and half the size of the two men that Petir brought. Would he stand a chance against them? Is there a possibility that I might have to send him into battle against one of them, and watch him get beaten down? Maybe killed? If I make him a pleasure asset, I might be able to spare him from that. But then, will I be condemning him to an even worse fate? I just don’t know. There are too many variables, and I know too little about this place.

                Petir is shaking his head and laughing. “No, no, no!” he says, his voice more boisterous than necessary. “Assets are way too valuable to kill during the Competition. After you put all that money into entering them? No, you get penalized for killing them in the Competition. Even in BloodSports, we set them up in uneven fights. Put a good fighter against a weak one, give them a taste of blood. Of course, you kill a lot of weak assets finding some good ones. But Competition assets? No, you don’t kill them. They’re too valuable.”

                Well that’s a relief.

                “Of course,” he continues thoughtfully. “That doesn’t mean you want an inexperienced slave. There’s a lot of owners who want to test their assets before paying the entrance fee to the competition. They set up unsanctioned battles on their ships with other owners, to test out slaves before they need to submit the entrance fee. And believe me, they’ll have no qualms about taking out an asset who might be a threat to their place in the Competition. Make it look like an accident, I’m sure, but it wouldn’t be.”

                “I don’t suppose I’d let him fight then, if he’d probably get killed.”

                “It’s… ah… it’s not totally option, I don’t suppose,” he says, and there’s a frown on his face like it’s something he’d never considered before. “I mean, it would be considered fairly rude. Might make you some enemies, make you look shady. There’s a lot of competing before the main event, a lot of owners trying to show off and size up the competitors. Combat and covert assets are the only ones who could get killed, though. Covert assets have a similar competition to combat assets, although they have a last-man standing melee, with painted weapons to show kill-shots.”

                “What about the other categories? Pleasure, domestic, and scholarly?”

                He waves his hand impatiently.

                “No idea. I don’t deal in them, so I don’t bother to watch. It’s a lot more important to have strong combat and covert assets. Everything else is just cake.”

                “To protect me, I’m assuming, from other owners?” I ask, and he laughs.

                “No. Damn, did I not mention that? So much to get through. In-fighting is prohibited. No master will attack you. You cannot attack or order your slave to attack any other master. If a master gets injured – a scratch, a shove, a slap – by one of your slaves, you must pay restitution. If anything bigger happens… well, we’ve had a few owners turn up missing, with their slaves mysteriously up for auction at the next competition.”

                “So, if there’s no fighting between owners, what are the combat and covert slaves for? I mean, you compete them, but are they basically just for show? I assumed that they’d have practical applications as well.”

                It would be very nice if Petir tells me that they are being used to build a secret army, and then he tells me where they are being kept, and how to deactivate the chip. It’s far from a realistic hope, but I’m already wearying of façade. Keeping up this act is going to be a long, arduous endeavor.

                “Anyone with this much money has enemies,” Petir says predictably. “The assets keep you safe from people outside of the Leash trying to harm you. Covert slaves take out your opposition, be it a business rival or just someone who pissed you off. Mostly, though, they’re for show. An owner who doesn’t have strong, well-behaved fighting slaves isn’t worth his salt.”

                “So your advice would be to get a strong combat and covert asset first, before worrying about the other?”

                “Absolutely. Once you’ve got a good defense and offense, you go getcha a domestic slave. They handle everything else. Cooking, cleaning, house management, budget, other slaves. Anything that’s a pain in the ass. Get a pleasure slave if you want one- not to compete, just to have. They’re cheap as shit unless they’ve placed, and then they get real damn expensive. If you’ve got the coin left, you can grab a scholarly slave. Ones with a bit of training don’t run you too much, so maybe a medic would be good. Train ‘em a few more years and you can get some better resale. They’re about the only ones that hold any value after they hit thirty.”

                “Where would I get these other slaves?” I ask, because he hasn’t volunteered the information, but he also hasn’t tried to sell me one of his, so I can assume that he doesn’t do business with them.

                “The closest one is Red Seven,” he tells me, but I can tell that he doesn’t like it. “The casino satellite?” I do know it, and I’m actually a bit surprised that it’s mixed up in all this. Red Seven is a fairly high-end gambling establishment. “They run pleasure and domestic slaves out of there. You’ll have to get a scholarly off of another owner, I don’t know any dealers who trade them. Or get a fresh boy and train him yourself. But as long as you’ve got strong covert and combat slaves, that’s all that really matters.”

                “I see,” I tell him, and I think he sees my agreement as an opening for a deal, because his eyes get that predatory sheen again.

                “Tell you what, I like you,” he says again, and I try not to show how irritating the repetition is. Then again, I suppose it’s partially true. He definitely likes my money. “I give you half price on one of these two for that one.”

                “No, I don’t think so,” I say immediately. Even if I hadn’t already decided to keep Zero, the fact that Petir is so keen to make a deal for him would tell me that I shouldn’t sell him. And as shady as Petir is, I can only assume that he’s trying to rip me off, to trade me a badly trained combat slave for one that’s rare and valuable.

                I don’t let myself glance at Zero. I don’t have the luxury of showing weakness in front of this man, this predator. If Zero is worried that he will be sold, he makes no hint of it. I haven’t seen him move more than breathing since he took up his place by my shoulder. What I can see out of the corner of my eye has him standing at attention, his body firm but relaxed, his eyes distant. It’s not how I like to see him, but it’s better than I’d hoped for.

                “You won’t get a better offer,” Petir argues. “You won’t be able to enter him in BloodSports yourself to gain the prize money. No one in the Arena will face a Zero, since they kill every time. And they kill quick, they’ve got no taste for blood, so they make a lousy show. I plan on throwing as many fighters as I can at him, just to make it interesting. ‘The Death of the Last Zero.’ Should draw a bit of a crowd. Otherwise, he’d be useless. He’s not trained for the Competition, and probably not worth trying to train. They’ve got a bad habit of disobedience. Think they know better than their masters, end up getting them killed. Nasty strain of self-destruction, too. Nobody wants them for a guard or an enforcer anymore, I’m not really sure what you’re going to do with him.”

                “I plan to categorize him as a pleasure slave.”

                There was a pause as he grasped that concept.

                “You wanna fuck him?” Then he laughs. “Hell, a hole’s a hole. Make some money from him. You can fuck one of these two just as easily with half the fuss.”

                And that makes the two assets behind Petir look distinctly unnerved without either of them actually moving or changing their expression. But I’ve no interest in either of them, so I simply smile.

                “I like a challenge,” I tell him. “Besides, I’ve already started training this one. I wouldn’t want to leave a job half finished.”

                Petir frowns, and I know he wants to argue, but he’s not really sure how. So he changes tactics and says, “If you wanna change his category, there’s a fee. It’s not something I do. When you go to Red Seven, they’ll do it.” I assume, then, that the Leash doesn’t let him add a charge on top of that fee. So if there’s no money in it for him, then he’s got no interest in doing it. Either way, I know he’s hoping that the additional money will convince me that Zero is a bad investment. But all the conniving that he’s doing is convincing me of basically the opposite.

                “I’m not sure I understand. If each of my slaves can enter multiple categories in the Competition, why do I need to worry about labeling them? Do they even matter?”

                I really just want to rub my temples. Is the Leash really set up like a bureaucracy? Has it actually been around so long that there are rules and codes and social etiquettes? This is my first interaction in the Leash, and already I’m chafing under its constraints. I’m irritated, impatient, and generally in a foul temper. I can’t imagine my present company has anything to do with it.

                “Ah. Designations are for pre-games. There’s a steep fee to enter the actual Competition. Maybe you don’t want to enter the Competition, but you still want to show off, right? Make it so everyone can see how valuable your slave is? So before that, they offer free shows that the slaves perform to entice prospective buyers and show off an owner’s skill. During those shows, you must place a slave’s talent within his classification. You can’t have a pleasure slave showing off fighting skills, or a combat slave doing ballroom dancing.”

                So I probably wouldn’t need to change Zero’s designation, because I couldn’t give a damn about his resell value. I could leave him categorized as a combat but use him as a pleasure.

                “Not just that,” he continues, “but their designations say where you might want to bring them. You can’t just bring a combat slave to another owner’s party without being instructed – it would look like you expected to be attacked. But if you are expected to bring a combat asset, you’ll most likely be asked to fight him against one of the other owner’s assets. Testing battles are pretty common, they help you get a feel on how well your asset will do in the actual Competition.”

                “So, do you usually leave your assets behind when you meet other owners? Do they stay unsupervised on the ship for long periods of time?”

                “Well, you don’t usually leave all of them behind. Most places will let you bring a domestic, and nobody says anything if you want to bring your own pleasure slave. But combat and covert assets don’t get taken out unless they’re invited, and scholarly slaves don’t serve much of a purpose in public.”

                In that case, I probably will have to change Zero’s designation from combat to pleasure. I’ve no interest in setting myself up for a situation where I’ll have to send him into a fight. And, more than that, I’d like to keep him by my side as much as possible. He’s valuable and infamous, and he’ll definitely get me the attention I’m looking for.

                “I’ll keep that in mind for my future assets, but I’ve already made my decision about this one.”

                “So he fucks that good, huh?” Petir asks, and the look he gives Zero this time is nearly a leer. “Can’t say I’m surprised, from a skinny thing like that.”

                “I’m more than pleased with his performance,” I respond, then fake a moment of hesitancy. “Only…”

                “Only what?” he pursues, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s still hoping he can exploit a fault and get me to sell Zero, or if he’s just that pushy.

                “Well, not that it’s a large problem, but he can’t seem to get an erection. I thought I should defer to you, in your experience with assets, that you might know what the problem is.”

                He thumbs his nose and peers at Zero, before giving a sigh and hefting himself out of the chair.

                “Boy,” he says, and it’s directed at Zero this time. “Sit here, arms behind your back.” Petir gestures to an empty table. Zero hesitates only a split second before following the order, sitting on the edge of the table and linking his hands behind his back. I allow it, but I rise and move closer to keep an eye on Petir. “Put your feet here,” Petir commands, and gestures to the edge of the table next to Zero’s knee. Obeying forces Zero to bend his legs until his knees are pressing against his chest. He leans back and braces on his hands for balance. It leaves his hands trapped under him while his stomach and genitals are exposed. I’m surprised that he’s even willing to do it.

                Petir moves between Zero’s legs before the asset has even finished settling. Petir’s hand comes up and grasps Zero’s testicles firmly, and I have to bite my tongue not to snarl at him. But I’d been the one to ask advice, even though I never thought it would go like this.

                Petir pulls Zero’s balls up with one hand, runs the other hand along the flesh underneath. He takes two fingers and presses on Zero’s perineum, his brow furrowed in concentration. After that, his fingers probe into Zero’s sack, then press into the flesh above, and finally they grasp the base of Zero’s flaccid cock and dig in, probing under the skin. Zero’s face remains perfectly and unchangingly blank, his body puts up no resistance to this violation. When his probing is finished, Petir moves his hand to Zero’s soft, short member and gives a few pulls. I see Zero give an involuntary twitch, but otherwise he submits without complaint to the treatment. Honestly, he doesn’t even seem surprised by it. Eventually, Petir pulls his hands away and steps back.

                “’M not feelin’ anything like a surgical incision down there, so it’s not likely that they’ve castrated him. Boy,” he says, addressing Zero, “They give you any kind of pills at the last place?”

                “Yes, sir,” Zero responds immediately, his voice flat and toneless.

                “What’d they give you?”

                “I don’t know, sir. I was never informed.”

                “Mm. How many pills was it? And what time did you take them?”

                “Three pills, sir. And at the beginning of my daily cycle.”

                “Well, that’s probably it then,” Petir says, returning his attention to me. “It’s not something I do, but a lot of combat trainers drug up their boys to keep them more reliable. One would be an energy tablet, one would be a mental stabilizer, and the last would be a libido inhibitor. Takes care of all those nasty urges and hormones,” he says with a grin. “Now me, personally, I think they fight better with a bit of fire between their legs, but not everybody agrees. So you’ve had him how long?”

                “About two weeks.”

                “And he came straight from his last owner?”

                “I believe so. He spent a few days in an EC before I got him.”

                “That’s almost like cryo, so that doesn’t really count. You’re probably looking at another week, maybe two, before he’s got anything going on down there. The libido inhibitors are probably out of his system, but it takes a while for the hormones to balance out. Could get a little moody until it settles. Best watch him close. You know how unreliable these ones can be.”

                “Thank you. I’m glad to know that it was nothing serious.”

                Petir just nods and gestures for Zero to get off of the table. Zero obeys the order and returns to his place behind my vacant seat. Zero once again stands with his feet braced wide and his hands crossed at the wrist in front of him, but this time it makes Petir frown.

                “I thought you were training him as a pleasure slave,” Petir asks.

                “I am.”

                “Then what the hell is he doing standing in a position for combat slaves? Hey, boy! You know better than that.”

                Zero hesitates this time, but still doesn’t glance at me for approval. Instead, he folds himself down to the floor and tucks his legs under him, sitting on his knees. Then he clasps his hands behind his back and rests them against the floor, keeping his arms touching from wrist to elbow. The angle bends him backward, so that his chest is pushed out and his throat is exposed.

                “Now that’s how a sex-slave is supposed to look,” Petir murmurs appreciatively. He eyes Zero again speculatively, before glancing back at me. Standing like this, he’s a few inches shorter than me, and I can tell that it irritates him. “You know, I thought you might just be trying to mislead me, with this whole pleasure asset thing. Like you were trying to get a jump on the competition by not letting anyone see the fighter you’ve got.” His eyes dart to Zero again. “But I’m thinking – no, that’s not the case. Actually, all you’ve got here is a willing hole, eh? He’s washed up as a fighter, and all that’s left is this piece of ass. I bet he can’t fight worth a damn. I bet all the fight’s gone out of him.”

                “I really wouldn’t know,” I say with a nonchalant shrug. “I haven’t been training him for fighting.”

                And maybe I’ve been too indifferent with him, or maybe he’s just finally grasped that I’m not likely to make any sort of deal with him and I’ve just been grilling him for information. Maybe, even, he gets a hint that hiding Zero as a pleasure slave before competing him as a combat slave is most likely what I actually plan to do. But for whatever reason, Petir suddenly gets a very nasty glint in his eye.

                “Maybe we find out if he can still fight. Maybe my boys rough him up a little, see if he’s still a man now that you’ve been fucking him like a cunt.”


	14. Hardly A Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is beta'd by IntrepidEm, and as always she is AMAZING for looking this over for me. I also got some great feedback from PuckThePlayer, and I wanted to give her a shout out for all her help. They're both totally awesome, and I really appreciate all the help. (You wouldn't want to see what this fic looked like before them. Let's just say, homonyms are my worst enemy.) 
> 
> I have, like, the absolute best readers. You guys are awesome! Thanks so much for all your feedback. As always, please drop me a line if you liked it/loved it/hated it/wanted to make out with it. Thanks!
> 
> SPECIAL NOTE: We're coming up on the end of this section! Yay! There's only two more chapters to go for the Perfect Zero part of the Long Leash series. PLEASE don't forget to subscribe to the series to you still get notifications when I start posting The Long Leash: Broken Doll. I'm absolutely foaming at the mouth to see how you all react to the new section and the new characters. Other than that, just please don't forget to hit Kudos if you liked this, and drop me a comment if you feel like it. Thanks for reading!

Zeke

 

               The two blonde assets drop their hands and take a threatening step towards Zero, who remains in his prone and kneeling stance, although his eyes immediately focus on the two aggressors. Petir and I are still standing by the empty table, and Petir’s slaves are closer to Zero than I am. I make an aborted move toward the three of them before I realize that I won’t be quick enough to get between Zero and the two blondes. Instead, I fall back a step and turn an outraged expression toward Petir.

                “I thought there was no in-fighting between masters?” I growl. Petir smiles in a way that I find a lot less appeasing than it’s probably meant to be.

                “They’re not fighting you, you get? And assets – well, there’s always a bit of- how you say?- good-natured squabbling. Just a bit of rough-housing.” He shrugs, still giving me that vicious grin. “They won’t kill him.”

                Damn it. I’m cornered. I don’t know enough about this situation to talk my way out of it. I know Zero is strong, especially since he’s nearly recovered, but I haven’t been paying enough attention to his ability. I’m not an expert in combat. I can’t guess Zero’s skill level, and I don’t know what kind of training Petir’s boys have. I don’t see any weapons, and Petir’s bragging about their hand-to-hand skill leads me to believe that they’ll be fighting Zero in his element. He’s at a disadvantage, but not as much as if they’d had weapons and he’d been unarmed. They’re at least even in both sets of opponents relying solely on their strength and skill.

                Still, there are two of them and they’re both bigger than he is, in height and body-mass. Chances are slim that he can hold both of them off for any extended period of time. If I pull my pulse-gun, will it just make them move faster? Pulse-guns aren’t known for their accuracy or scope. If the blondes can grab Zero, I’m just as likely to hit him as I am them. And Petir’s promise that they won’t kill Zero doesn’t mean that they won’t do something permanently debilitating.

                These thoughts pass through my mind rapid-fire. I’m used to thinking under pressure. It takes only a moment for me to realize that there’s no other choice. Zero will have to fight, while I bide my time for an opening with the pulse-gun.

                “Zero,” I call, but his eyes remain focused on the two aggressors. “Up. Defend yourself.”

                He’s on his feet in an instant, and his movement triggers the other two to move faster. Petir’s eyes are on his fighters, and I use the distraction to lean down and slip my gun out of my boot. I can hear the fighters scuffling, but my attention is fixed on Petir, making sure he doesn’t glance over and see what I’m doing. I palm the gun and discreetly slip it behind my back. A dark frown comes over Petir’s face, and I follow his gaze, afraid of what’s managed to happen in the few seconds my attention has been away.

                Zero is… vicious.

                His eyes have taken a nearly maddened intensity. His gaze flicks between the two blondes, monitoring their movements individually. His face is calm. He’s in no way anxious about fighting, not even when his opponents are larger and more numerous. His hands are relaxed at his sides. When one of the blondes shifts closer then lunges for Zero’s left side, Zero bats the man’s hand away while his other fist connects with his face. The movement is fluid and natural, moving seamlessly from neutrality into violence. There’s no tensing of muscles, no flicker of expression to reveal his attack. It’s like he doesn’t even think about it. He waits, loose but focused, and I can’t help but think of him as a predator. Poised and still, he looks like a big cat. Like a tiger waiting to strike its prey.

                Is this really the same man who’s been sleeping in my embrace? Who I pulled from an Emergency Capsule only days ago, beaten, bloody, and half-starved?

                Petir’s assets are hopelessly outclassed. One is already bleeding from the mouth, the other comes back up from Zero’s punch with a black eye. It’s obvious that they’re intimidated.

                Completely naked. 5’6”. 110 pounds. And he’s holding off two men who are easily twice his weight and size.

                “Get in there!” Petir snarls. “Idiots! Cunts! He’s barely a man! Get him!”

                The prompt from their owner makes the assets forget their self-preservation. They lunge in unison, trying to grab Zero’s arms. Zero slides back, sends a bare foot into the stomach of one asset. He lets the other grab his arm, but uses the momentum as he drops his foot to throw the second asset into a table. The blonde on the floor kicks out, and his booted foot lands a lucky hit to Zero’s stomach while Zero is mid-throw. Zero makes a wheezing noise, but doesn’t go down. His hands come down and grab the booted foot, twisting it viciously. There’s a crack and an ear-splitting shriek, and then the asset’s foot is pointing the wrong way.

                The asset that was thrown recovers and flings himself onto Zero’s back. Zero stumbles at the weight and grabs at the arms that wrap around his throat. Then he heaves the man up and over his head. I hadn’t realized he was that strong. He shouldn’t be that strong, not when he’s as slender and fast as he is. But Zero moves, the blonde man comes over his shoulder, and Zero slams the body into the ground in front of him. The blonde is dazed, and Zero puts his foot on the man’s neck and presses down until the man wheezes. Until the man stops wheezing. Until the body goes limp.

                Then he steps back and leans over the prone form. I watch his hands come to the man’s shoulders, then I see Zero’s fingers go to his neck. I realize that he’s checking the man’s pulse, and it makes me feel a bit better. For a moment, it felt like I didn’t know Zero at all, that he wasn’t anything like what I’d thought. This man, who had so easily defeated two larger, trained fighters, had been sleeping beside me. How easily could he have killed me, if the urge had overcome his reservations? In the face of these combat skills, I would have been nearly helpless despite being twice his size. It gives me a shiver of fear over my own naivety. What else have I been taking for granted? But Zero’s resolve not to kill has held. Everything else is a surprise, but not necessarily a bad one.

                When Zero confirms that the asset’s pulse is steady, he stands and for the first time his eyes meet mine. His expression is neutral, but not the careful blank mask of earlier. He’s awaiting my instructions. After a moment, his eyes flick down my form, to the arm that’s hiding the gun behind my back. Somehow, during all of that, he still managed to catch my movements, and he knows what I’m holding.

               One asset is moaning and clutching his knee. The other is unconscious. Beside me, Petir is grinding his teeth in anger. And, finally, I spur myself into action and round on Petir with the gun.

                “I think it’s time for you to leave,” I growl.

                Petir is taken by surprise at the gun. At first his face goes red with anger. His hands ball into fists, like he’d prefer to strike me himself. We both know that would be futile, though, and disappointingly he doesn’t try it. I was rather hoping I’d get to shoot him. He reigns his temper, though, and grins at me.

                “Hey, no hard feelings, right? You’ve got a solid fighter there. Just wanted to push some of his buttons, you get?” he says, but I just continue glaring. I’ve got no interest in his shallow manipulations at this point. I just want him to leave.

                One of Petir’s assets has already started to rouse himself, and the other is whimpering but trying to stand on his good leg. I feel a pang of sympathy for them, because I know they haven’t chosen this life and have no choice but to obey orders. It’s a small consolation that my mission will free them, as well, if I’m successful.

                Zero moves to my side as the blonde men rise, putting himself between me and the possible threats. It seems instinctual, but I’m still a little touched that he naturally protects me. It also has the added benefit of putting him between me and Petir, if the sight of my gun isn’t enough to convince the owner to go.

                Seeing the resolve in my face and the glare that threatens violence from my slave, Petir frowns and backs off. He shouts a command and the two assets help each other limp toward the door. Petir trails them slowly, with Zero following a step behind the three. I follow the whole group, although I’m fairly confident that Zero has this under control. I’ll need to watch the three of them leave my ship before I can feel safe again.

                At the door to the jump-ship, just before I can be rid of the crook and his goons, Petir turns to me and glares.

                “Don’t think I’ll be the only one who tries to take out your boy. Pleasure slave or not, he’s a fucking threat, and nobody’s going to be happy about you hiding him. Dress him up like a pussy all you like, nobody’s gonna buy that he’s spreading his legs for you!”

                Then the ship door shuts, and I take special pleasure in hitting the deploy button and watching the docking doors slam shut behind the ship. I hear the roar of the engines and feel the vibrations as it pulls away.

                And then he is thankfully, completely gone.

                “Are you alright?” I ask, turning to Zero. My eyes rove over his naked form. I find some new bruises on his abdomen and two sets of bloodied knuckles, but he seems otherwise fine.

                “I have not been damaged, master,” he tells me, and his voice is still as flat as when Petir had been here. It makes me want to cringe. Instead, I lay a hand on his shoulder.

                “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know he would try anything like that. If I had known, I would have been better prepared.”

                Zero frowns and his eyes drift to the docking bay, where Petir has just departed from. “That’s not a usual occurrence,” he says firmly. “My last master didn’t have much contact with other owners, but the ones he did meet with never behaved like that. I think he was trying to take advantage of you because you’re new.”

                And I’d had the same thought, but I’m still likely to be more cautious in the future.

                “I’m glad you’re alright,” I tell him, and then, “You did very well against Petir’s assets.”

                “Yes, sir,” he says, and then hesitates. “You’re not… angry? That I didn’t kill them?”

                “No. You’ve already told me of your reluctance to kill. I won’t punish you for it. I wasn’t intending on using your skills as a combat slave. However, you handled yourself admirably.”

                “Thank you, master. If it pleases you, I’ll resume my training schedule tonight.”

                Wait… what?

                “What training schedule?”

                And now it’s Zero’s turn to give me a bewildered look.

                “To get me ready for the competition.”

                “Hang on, I think I’ve missed something.”

                “You’ve seen me fight now. You can see for yourself that I’m a valuable combat asset. And you told Owner Petir that you planned to compete.”

                Ah. Well, yes, technically that’s true.

                “I also told him that you’re a pleasure asset now,” I reply, and he gives me a blank look.

                “It would be illogical for you to keep me as a pleasure slave. My value is in my combat training.”

                “Your value is where I say it is,” I correct him firmly. He tenses and I can tell that the idea rankles with him, that sex is more valuable than his skills.

                “You’re being stubborn,” he growls, his hands balled into fists. It’s an uncharacteristic show of temper from the usually docile asset. I want to chalk it up to his passion from the fight, but Petir’s comment about moodswings floats back into my mind. “You’ve made a decision and you won’t change it! You’re just like him!”

                The instinct is there to yell back at him, to argue my point. But that isn’t the kind of relationship that we have, and that isn’t the kind of behavior that should come from a master. Instead, I pull myself to my full height and step up to him, until my form is looming over his. He meets my eyes with a glare of defiance and a body strung tight with justified anger. I know now that if he loses his temper, he could very well kill me before I’m able to call out the commands to stop him.

                “Enough,” I tell him, and my voice is quiet but firm as steel. I don’t move. I don’t tense. And I don’t look away from him.

                Eventually, Zero relents. His eyes go to the floor, and he shrinks in on himself. His shoulders sag, and his posture becomes submissive instead of aggressive. When his hands relax out of the fists he’d been holding, I stop looming over him, although I stay in his space enough to show him that I’m not backing down.

                “I apologize, Master,” he whispers, and I nod in response because an apology is warranted. If this behavior continues, I might have to discipline him. I can’t risk him acting out like this in front of other masters. Still, seeing him defeated and miserable like this bothers me, and I tilt his chin to look me in the eye.

                “Listen,” I tell him, and I try to keep my voice soft. “You are dangerous. You are infamous. You are rebellious. And no one thinks that you can possibly be handled. Do you know what kind of reputation I’ll get for turning you into a successful pleasure asset?”

                A good reputation means that people want to know you, want to be your friend. They’re a lot more likely to give you trade secrets, a lot more likely to do business with you. I need that social standing, that upward mobility, if I hope to get the Controller’s attention. If I can possibly find him before the Competition, I might have a better chance at catching him.

                “I’m not trained as a pleasure asset,” he argues. “I can’t compare to experienced pleasure assets. I’m valuable for my skills-“

                “Skills in what?” I argue, my temper getting the best of me. “Killing? Is that what you want to go back to doing?”

                “No,” he admits, and I knew that would be his answer or I wouldn’t have asked.

                “If you wanted to be a combat asset, then you should have killed them. They’ll take mercy as a sign of weakness. They’ll keep throwing assets at you until they wear you down, before we ever make it to the Competition. There’s your logic, Zero.”

                I think, in retrospect, that it might have been kinder to slap him. He gets a horrified, hurt look on his face, and all the color drains from his skin. I can see the trail of reasoning process in his mind, and I watch him come to the same conclusion. That he’s essentially ruined his chances of being a combat asset without being killed, as every owner in his path throws their own champion at him to keep Zero from making it to the Competition.

                “Yes, sir. It was a tactical mistake, sir. Killing… It’s what I’m trained for. It’s all I’m good for,” he says, and he looks so miserable that I can’t let it stand. If the choice is for me to use his body or break his soul, then I’ll take his body every time. But I’d really prefer to do it without harming him irreparably.

                “That’s not true,” I tell him softly, placing my hand on his shoulder. “I’m not asking you to kill for me. I’m asking you to trust me.”

                “I want to,” he admits, and I’m happy enough that he’s being honest, so I overlook the fact that he still doesn’t have confidence in me.

                “Here’s what’s going to happen,” I explain. “I’m going to change your category to a pleasure asset. That means that I won’t have to fight you in the pregames. You won’t have to kill anyone. I won’t have to worry about someone killing you. And then I get the added bonus of having the notoriety that comes from turning a Zero into a sex slave. Get it?”

                “And the Competition?” he prompts. I don’t really like how much of his self-worth is tied up in his combat skills, but I don’t suppose anyone has ever wanted him for anything else.

                “If I decide to let you compete, then you will be competing outside of your category. I might let you compete as a combat asset, or I might enter you as a pleasure asset, or both if I feel like it. The point is, I’m not interested in selling you. I don’t give a damn what I can do to raise your value. If I let you compete, it’s because I know you have skills and I want other people to see it as well.”

                I don’t tell him that I’m definitely going to be entering this year, or that he will certainly be my combat asset, or even that I plan to win the whole Competition, not just one category. I don’t tell him these things because this is my plan and my mission. Zero doesn’t deserve to have these worries heaped on him. This is my burden to carry, and I won’t drag Zero down under it.

                Zero takes that in, and I can tell that he still isn’t pleased with it – maybe he still isn’t convinced that he’ll even make a decent pleasure slave – but he doesn’t protest. I give him time to absorb, because I really just need to calm myself and listen to the echoes of the ship now that it’s just the two of us once again. Everything is changing again. I can feel it. And yet, I can’t be sure if it’s changing for the better. I worry about the toll this is having on Zero already, and wonder for the first time if I’m really up to the job.

                After a minute, I put aside my own worries of inadequacy. I’ve got bigger problems at the moment. I gesture for Zero to follow as I head back to the main part of the ship, and he falls easily into step beside me. Whatever issues we’ve had lately, apparently it hasn’t shaken our camaraderie. Though, when I lead him to the bathroom in our suite, he does give me a puzzled look.

                “Another shower today, master?” he asks. I smile and shake my head as I start the jets on the whirlpool tub, checking that the water is heated appropriately.

                “I think the both of us could benefit from a long, hot bath, don’t you think?” I ask him, and he merely shrugs. He gets in without hesitancy, though, and relaxes into one of the seats. I follow after divesting myself of my clothes. The hot water pulls away the rest of my anxieties, and I relax for a couple minutes before grabbing a cloth and soaping it.

                I know Zero doesn’t expect me to wash him again, and if the looks he gave me earlier were confused, this one says that he thinks I’ve lost it. I know he’s more than capable of washing himself, but the thought of Petir’s hand on him – touching him, like he’s a pet or a piece of furniture, like he’s got any right to touch something that’s _mine_ – makes me sick to my stomach. I can’t tolerate the thought that there are any lingering traces of Petir on Zero, and I need to banish them with my own hands.

                “Humor me,” I tell him as I run the cloth along his arms, shoulders, chest. He’s not really dirty, not even with the scuffling from earlier, so it doesn’t take long.

                “Is this a thing?” he asks, but doesn’t try to stop me even as he says it. “Like… Like a sex thing?”

                I huff a laugh and don’t bother to contradict him.

                “Yes, Zero. It’s a sex thing. I’ve got a bath-kink.”

                Zero nods seriously, the confusion clearing from his face. Hell, maybe he’s right. Maybe it is a kink. It’s certainly my go-to for making someone feel better, and it’s something I don’t mind doing. I’ve never gone out of my way to instigate a bath before, though. Still, it’s one of the few ways I can take care of Zero, who has such low standards of personal comfort that I could probably leave him for a week without food and he wouldn’t complain.

                My hand runs across his chest, then dips under the water to wash the place that Petir touched most. It’s hard to tell if I’m more upset that Petir touched him, or that Zero is completely unfazed by it. I suppose that isn’t fair, considering that Zero has probably been taught that his body is not his own practically since birth. Still, his easy acceptance of someone else’s touch bothered me, and I know I’m going to have to work on that as I infiltrate deeper into this society.

                Zero’s body doesn’t react any more for me than it had for Petir, and I’m just a touch disappointed at the same time that I’m not really surprised. My body does react to our proximity and to the feel of Zero’s skin, but it’s not a lot and it’s easy to hide from Zero in the water. The impulse is in me to lean over and kiss Zero, but I resist. I know that if I were to make a move, Zero would feel obligated to get me off, and I don’t want that right now. After all of today’s stresses, I don’t know if I could handle that.

                If I’m honest with myself, I’m wondering if I can handle any of this. The meeting with the trainer was supposed to make me feel better. Instead I’m wondering, once again, if I’m in over my head.


	15. An Unsteady Transition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update it a little later than I'd planned! I've had the WORST summer head-cold. All sniffly-coughy is not nearly as sexy as it seems in fiction.
> 
> ONE MORE CHAPTER TO GO! Yay! Please, don't forget to subscribe to this SERIES (The Long Leash) to get the next part, The Long Leash: Broken Doll. I'm super-excited to see what you think! I'll probably take a few weeks to edit that section, and then I'll start uploading chapters. 
> 
> I thought this might be a good time to ask if anybody has any requests? Like, I've got a medical kink a mile wide (if you haven't already noticed) so that will probably come up again in the future. But if anybody has anything that particularly lights their fire, let me know and I'll try to work it in somewhere. (I'm a good bit ahead in writing this, so it might seem like it takes a while, but I'll give you a shout-out when the chapter comes up.) Anyway, just putting that out there. It doesn't necessarily have to be now, but if you've ever got something you'd like to see worked in, let me know. I'll do the best I can to accommodate!
> 
> This chapter is beta'd by IntrepidEm, and as always she is AMAZING for looking this over for me. I also got some great feedback from PuckThePlayer, and I wanted to give her a shout out for all her help. They're both totally awesome, and I really appreciate all the help. 
> 
> Please don't forget to hit Kudos if you liked this, and drop me a comment if you feel like it. Thanks for reading!

Zero

 

                Master Zeke lets me plot the course for Red Seven. Since the trainer from BloodSports arena visited, he’s eased up on prohibiting me from utilizing my combat skills. As my wounds heal, he’s started letting me train harder, without the former restrictions. He lets me pilot the ship without double checking me, and even allows me to check the maintenance of the ship’s equipment. It makes me feel more relaxed, to know that the ship is well-maintained and on a safe path. I feel that I am being utilized correctly, maximizing my skills.

                Unfortunately, my owner hasn’t given up on his idea of turning me into a pleasure asset. In the week that follows as we travel toward Red Seven, he continues to train me, alternating between training me to give pleasure and take pain. On the two nights that he teaches me pain, he continues to ask me to use the same specific words when I need to stop, or he otherwise gives me a stop-point at which to use them. It’s frustrating, but I feel at least that I am successful in this training.

                I am significantly less successful at the pleasure training. He spends three more evenings teaching me to pleasure him with my mouth and putting his fingers inside me. The amount of fingers he uses increases, but he doesn’t seem to be any closer to using me fully. The thought of taking his cock doesn’t frighten me, but I can’t say I’m eager for it either. The stretch at three fingers burns, and I know Zeke is considerably longer and almost as thick. However, without being initiated as a pleasure slave, I can’t help but feel that my position is threatened by this trip to Red Seven, where there will be more experienced pleasure slaves available.

                It doesn’t help that I still can’t manage to get an erection. Despite my efforts to pleasure him, I can tell that my master is still disappointed with my lack of ability. If my owner has no interest in me for my combat skills and I am unable to function properly as a pleasure asset, then there is a high likelihood that he will replace me with a better-trained pleasure slave on Red Seven.

                My owner reminds me several times that the trainer had said it would take a few more weeks for me to clear my system of the libido suppressants, and that he’s not concerned at all. Still, it seems like one more disappointment that I’ve offered to an owner who has been giving me patient and diligent care.

                It’s a nine day trip to Red Seven, which is a private ship tethered to the gravity field of satellite 37. Being tethered instead of actually on the surface of the satellite makes it easier for inter-satellite travel. It’s more cost-effective to run a jump-ship between a private craft and a tethered base than to land the jump-ship or shuttle on the satellite.

                On the eighth day of our trip, I wake with my master’s arm draped around my waist. His form is pressed lightly against my back, his arm lying gently over my hip. It’s not unusual for him to curl around my smaller form, and I don’t find the grip to be constrictive – not as I did in the first few days. I sleep lightly and I don’t dream, so Zeke is in no danger from me. However, I’m accustomed to waking several times through the night to check on the safety of my ship, so I’ve had to become more adept at slipping from the bed without waking him. He doesn’t like that I check the ship monitors for threats and physically check the halls for enemy combatants four times through the night, but it’s another thing that he quietly disapproves of without actually prohibiting.

                When I wake this time, it’s with the knowledge that I’ve already checked the ship four times through the night, and it’s only a few minutes away from my normal wake-cycle. Zeke will sleep for another hour or so while I begin my morning exercises, and will probably be making breakfast by the time I finish. Zeke hasn’t asked me to attempt cooking again since the initial disaster a few weeks ago.

                I don’t usually wake early. My internal clock is extremely reliable, and I don’t feel the need to urinate. But something does feel odd, and I look down to see my cock tented in the loose pants that Zeke has loaned me. I sit up immediately, startled by my own body. It doesn’t feel painful, not really, but there’s a pressure there that I don’t know how to ease. I don’t know what to do.

                Zeke stirs behind me, and I realize that my movements have woken him. He sits up and rubs his eyes, and I freeze with indecision. Should I hide this? Should I point it out? But Zeke notices before I can say anything.

                “Well, that’s a relief,” Zeke says, and there’s a crooked grin on his face. “I guess we can assume that Petir didn’t account for your increased metabolism.”

                “What should I do, sir?” I ask. Zeke loses the grin and spends a moment contemplating my crotch before he shrugs and dips his fingers into the waistband of my pants. He jerks the fabric down below my testicles, and my cock doesn’t so much spring forward as slips out. It’s engorged with blood, but not to the point that it’s stiff and straight like Zeke’s is when I pleasure him. Instead, it still curves over and rests against my thigh.

                Zeke’s hand reaches for my cock and I cringe back, inexplicably startled.

                “Wait! Don’t-“ I gasp, but his fingers are already wrapping around my member, sending little tingles of pleasure shooting through me. It’s the first time I’ve felt pleasure from this act, and I surprise myself when my hips jerk of their own accord. Zeke smiles, and begins to stroke my cock slowly, alternating between rubbing the sensitive head and stroking down the length of it. But after a few minutes, it’s obvious that this is as far as I will get today. My cock hasn’t hardened as Master Zeke’s does, and the pleasure from his hand is starting to abate. Finally, Zeke pulls his hand back.

                “Looks like you’re not quite recovered yet. That’s fine, you’ve done well today. Go take a shower, and set the temperature about ten degrees colder than your normal temperature. That should make it abate.”

                I rise and try to ignore the way my cock bobs as I put it away, or the sharp disappointment I feel over failing my owner once again. I pad to the shower as Zeke curls back down into the blankets to get a few more minutes of sleep. My new owner is far from lazy, but enjoys simple luxuries like sleeping late and long baths. He encourages me to participate with him, possibly because he likes the company or maybe because it’s something that a pleasure asset is likely to do. Either way, sleeping late is one of the tasks that I have difficulty completing. I find myself irritable and unhappy if I stay in bed longer than six hours, and it’s impossible for me to sleep longer than that. Thankfully, Zeke doesn’t insist that I stay in bed and wait for him, as long as I attend breakfast with him. He does insist that we eat breakfast together, and will come find me if I forget.

                Compared to what I grew up with and the past five years with my previous owner, my new life is filled with luxuries and freedoms that I’ve never experienced. It only highlights how much I’ve changed in these three weeks with Zeke, that a mere ten degrees of temperature change makes my skin prickle and shiver. I shower quickly, and as promised my cock goes flaccid almost immediately.

                The routine for the day continues as normal after that. I exercise and eat breakfast with Zeke, who tells me that he’s going to give me another sexual training session in the evening. He releases me and goes into his study, where he will work or conference for the next few hours, then break for lunch with me. Afterwards, he will either return to his study or go to the pool and swim laps. It won’t be until afterwards that my presence is required.

                The only downside to my new lifestyle is that, given my lack of experience with them, I have no idea what to do with my newfound freedoms and free time. I have strict instructions not to exercise more than necessary, which I assume is because Zeke wants to keep me looking a certain way. I’ve never seen a muscular pleasure asset, but then I’ve never seen one that looks like me either.

                I take several minutes to do a security sweep of the ship, check our course once again, and double check the ship’s maintenance. I spend some time cleaning the kitchen, which is one of the new tasks Zeke has given me in my role as a pleasure slave. It’s not something that pleasure assets typically do, but I don’t contradict him. I don’t want to imply that I’m reluctant to do menial tasks like cleaning. Since Zeke and I are that only two on-board, it’s obvious that one of us will do the cleaning, and Zeke already does the cooking. Also, it gives me something to fill my time with. When I finish the dishes and sanitizing the kitchen counters and floors, I make the bed and scrub out the shower and the sinks in the bathroom. Keeping our areas sanitary is something they taught us when I was younger living in the labs, so I easily clean our occupied spaces with medical precision.

                I have no real interest in the video programs available. My last owner’s pleasure assets had been obsessed with the shows, but I spent very little time around them and I don’t know what they found appealing about watching other people’s lives. Novels hold similarly little interest for me. I start to read a magazine on the tablet about recent advances in weapons, but I stop when I have the thought that I might never get to use any of the weapons. It gives me a strange, unpleasant feeling, and I put the tablet away.

                By the late afternoon, I’ve found myself a corner in the cockpit, and I’m watching the satellite approach on the forward monitors. I’m curled up, with my knees pulled to my chest, and the rapidly approaching ball of metal looks like a bullet coming straight at me. It’s probably an apt description.

                I can’t shake the feeling that once we get there, Zeke will realize how useless I am. How pathetic my attempts at seduction are. How ugly and bloodstained my body is. And then I’ll be returned to the life of pain and death that I remember, and this whole episode will seem like a fleeting dream.

                The thought of it is enough to undo me. I’m not sure if I can stand it if it really happens.

                I’m so focused on watching the looming form, that I don’t hear the doors slide open, don’t see Zeke approaching.

                “What’s wrong?” he asks. He’s kneeling in front of me, his face startled and worried. His hand comes up to touch my cheek and comes away wet. I realize that I’ve probably been crying for some time.

                “It’s too much,” I admit, and I’d really just prefer if he could leave me to my own misery, but Zeke seems to have no interest in that. He turns and sits beside me, close enough that his hip touches mine. He leans into my space and places a hand on my shoulder.

                “What’s too much?” he asks, and I can only gesture to the figure of Satellite 37 on the screen.

                “Mood swings?” he questions softly, cocking his head to the side quizzically. I want to deny it, but I also know that this isn’t normal behavior for me. I shrug. Maybe this is the result of strange, new hormones raging though my body, or maybe I’m simply… overwhelmed.

                Zeke’s fingers run through my short hair, which has been growing out since I was acquired, and is maybe half an inch long. I like the way it feels when he runs his fingers over my scalp and down the side of my cheek. His hand puts pressure on my head and I let him guide me until it’s resting against his shoulder. He puts an arm behind me and pulls me closer, and I don’t resist. I’m not supposed to. And I don’t want to.

                “Can you tell me what brought this on?” he asks after several minutes have elapsed, after I’ve stopped crying and regained some of my control.

                “You’re going to find a better pleasure slave when we get there,” I tell him, and my voice sounds hollow to my own ears. “You’re going to replace me.”

                “You know that I won’t,” he denies, and he sounds almost hurt that I would think that. “Zero, what is this? What’s making you so anxious?”

                I pull away from him and hunch my shoulders down. How do I make him understand? How do I tell him how useless I am, how lacking in pleasurable skills? I bring death and misery, and now he’s asking me to be a creature of lust and desire. Even with his careful preparation, I feel like it is a task that I can never succeed at. But how do I tell him this, without convincing him to get rid of me?

                Because I want to stay. In a moment of sudden clarity, I realize that it’s something that I’ve never really felt before. I’ve never had something that I coveted, something that I desired so deeply that I’m terrified to lose it. And that is what’s making me so fearful and anxious. I’ve never had to deal with wanting things before, when my life was composed of fighting and surviving, and I’m ill-equipped to handle the emotions that follow. Or any emotions at all, really.

                Zeke doesn’t press me for more words. Sometimes, I think that maybe he understands me better than I do. Instead of pressing for answers, he leans over and captures my lips in a kiss. It’s something that he hasn’t done outside of our pleasure-training before, and never without giving me warning first. I find that I don’t mind, though. Kissing is one of the tasks that I find more enjoyable in our training sessions, and now it’s a more than welcome distraction from my own thoughts. I meet Zeke’s kiss with enthusiasm, molding my lips against his. My eyes slip closed, and I part my lips before his tongue can tease for entrance, deepening the kiss of my own volition. I feel the same unfamiliar stirring in my groin that had occurred this morning, but it’s milder this time and subsides quickly. I try not to feel disappointed.

                Zeke doesn’t press for more than the kiss, and I feel a bit disappointed in that as well. If I can’t get hard for him, I would prefer to be useful as much as possible by giving him orgasms. But he pulls back when my fingers start to move toward his lap, and gently removes my hand when it finds his cloth-covered cock.

                “Later,” he assures me, “when you’re less upset. I don’t think it’s a good idea to try anything right now.”

                Which makes me feel strangely irritated, because I can definitely get control of my emotions long enough to suck him off. I pull my hand away and turn my face from him, but I don’t protest. I’ve been enough trouble for one day.

                “Yes, sir.”

                We sit in silence for a moment, and I think Zeke realizes that I’m irritated. Finally, he takes my face in his palm and forces me to look at him.

                “You’re so beautiful,” he tells me. He words hold no signs of deception – what reason would he even have for it? – but still I find them hard to believe. “You’re strong and smart and dangerous. You could easily kill me, but instead you bend to my commands. Do you know how appealing that is? How powerful it makes me feel every time you obey me, every time you struggle to adjust to this new life because you want to please me? I don’t know how you could still be worried that I’ll let you go, because I’m thrilled with you.”

                “But I’m…” I hesitate, and gesture at my crotch, trying to find the words, “…incomplete. I can’t give you this. And you haven’t taken me fully. With the effort you’re putting into me, it would be much easier to get a pleasure asset from Red Seven. I had value as a combat asset because of my training and my skills, but now… I can’t compare to the pleasure assets.”

                “I don’t want a different asset,” he tells me sternly. “I want you. And if it bothers you so much that you can’t get hard for me, then we’ll work on it. But I won’t have sex with you until I think that you’re ready. I am molding you into the epitome of my desires, and I want to teach you how to find pleasure in pleasuring me. So I will take my time with you, not because I have to or because you are failing, but because I value you.”

                He hesitates there, and it seems like he’s thinking about something. When his voice comes next, it seems more resigned, like he’s made a decision that he doesn’t particularly like. “And maybe, if you really want and it doesn’t endanger you, I’ll let you compete in the Leash Competition as a combat asset. Because I want you to be happy, and I want you to feel useful and valuable. But I will do it because it gives me pleasure, not because I need to use you as a combat asset. Even if you fail, you will remain my pleasure asset.”

                His words are strong and sincere, so I can’t help but believe them.

                “Yes, master,” I tell him. “I will do anything you ask. I want… I want to stay with you.”


	16. The Climax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE LAST CHAPTER for this section. Please subscribe to The Long Leash series to make sure you get alerts for our next section, The Long Leash: Broken Doll. 
> 
> Thank you all for following me this far! I really appreciate all the comments and support you've given me! Hopefully you still like this fic enough to keep reading during the next section. Thanks again!
> 
> One more time, I just have to thank IntrepidEm for betaing this fic for me. She is awesome and I couldn't do it without her! I also need to give some credit to PuckThePlayer for looking over the chapters and giving me some feedback. I couldn't manage without them both!
> 
> Please don't forget to hit Kudos if you liked this, and drop me a comment if you feel like it. Thanks for reading!

                “So how’s he doing?” Mari asks from the screen. “Any more hysterical crying fits?”

                We’ve spent three days in orbit around Red Seven, and I’ve spent most of it trying to reassure Zero since his melt-down in the cockpit. I knew that these fears were in him, but I hadn’t quite understood how deeply they ran, or how strong they would become whenever his hormones began to fluctuate as his body normalized. Thankfully, his mood swings have begun to stabilize. I have a slight fear that once his hormones stabilize to their normal levels, he’ll revert back to the robotic attitude he had when he first arrived.

                Still, I don’t think it’s good for him to stay like this either. It’s been challenging to deal with him. His emotions are new and sometimes overwhelming. He still has moments of all-consuming rage, where his face turns beet red and his hands clench and break whatever he is holding. I lost two forks and a plastic cup to his grip before I decided not to try to talk to him during meals. Nor have the random episodes of silent tears completely abated, and in the last three days I’ve stumbled on him more than once with tears streaming down his face, although he seemed completely oblivious to them. But these episodes are becoming infrequent enough that I feel they can be avoided when we’re in public, or at least managed to the point that they’re hidden.

                It’s late evening of our third day in orbit, and I haven’t contacted Mari since the day I found Zero in the cockpit. I’m calling to update her because I’ve scheduled a meeting with the owner of Red Seven for tomorrow, and I want to keep her apprised of the situation. Despite Zero’s insecurities, I don’t think I can put off the meeting any longer. I’ve ordered clothes for Zero that will be delivered in the morning, along with a thin blade that he can easily hide under his clothes. It’s made of an undetectable metal, so it won’t be found if they scan us. I want to be better prepared this time, if the events of my last meeting are any indicator of how this one will go.

                “No more crying, thankfully,” I tell Mari. “There’s nothing more unnerving than a person who doesn’t even know that they’ve got tears running down their face. I swear, he looked confused about them. Like he’d never cried before. But now he’s moved on to anger.”

                This makes her concerned. She frowns and says, “He hasn’t lashed out at you, has he?”

                “No. He is, apparently, trained to be extremely even tempered. He did break the shadow dummy, though.”

                “Broke the-… Is that even possible?”

                “Oh yes. Apparently you can smash its head in with the heel of your foot if you’re really trying hard enough.”

                She winces.

                “You should probably keep a close eye on him. If these mood swings get any worse…”

                “No, honestly, they’re getting better. I don’t think the dummy was meant to be used as much as Zero uses it. And that was yesterday, anyway. He hasn’t gotten upset at all today.”

                “What did you say to set him off yesterday?”

                “I don’t know. Probably something about being a pleasure asset. He still doesn’t think I’m going to keep him. That he won’t be good enough at it.”

                “Yes. That,” she says with distaste. “So, explain to me again why this is a good idea? Why you don’t want to keep him as a combat asset, which he is much better suited to and which you are planning on entering the Competition as?”

                “If I label him as a pleasure asset, then he won’t have to fight prior to the Competition. He won’t sustain any injuries, and he also won’t have to kill anyone.”

                “He’ll also be out of practice for fighting against real people,” she argues. I feel a flash of irritation. I don’t like being second guessed by a subordinate, even if her purpose is to guide and question me. Also, her arguments are far too similar to the ones Zero used, and I’ve just gotten finished settling things with him. I don’t like having to explain myself twice.

                “I’m sacrificing that aspect in order to get Zero to stay with me full time. Combat assets, from what the trainer told me, only come out when they’re fighting. I need the notoriety that Zero will bring. I need people to see him with me, submitting to me. I want them to see that I’ve remolded him, changed him from something of violence into something of beauty.”

                “Which will do what, exactly?”

                I resist rolling my eyes. Mari isn’t a spy, like me. She’s done a bit of undercover work, but never deep cover. And certainly never with the high-profile clientele that I’m sent to deal with.

                “In situations like this, you need to make a name for yourself. There’s a lot of insider trading, so keeping your head down puts you behind from the beginning. I need to show my strength, and then I’ll be able to make some friends.”

                “And you think those friends will give you a better shot at winning the Competition?”

                “Maybe, although not if I’m competing in their field. But even being around them, I’ll pick up tips. And if I get popular, I might be able to get closer to the Controller through his inner circle. If I can put an end to this in less than a year, I’d prefer that.”

                “Can you actually do it, though? Can you change Zero enough to impress these people?”

                “Yes.” Because I can remake him, change him, transform him. Whether or not it’s something I should do, whether it’s better for him or if he wants to change, these are not questions I allow myself. This is a task of necessity.

                “It’s a sound plan,” Mari tells me, like I need her approval.

                “I actually wanted to ask, assuming I can find the Controller before the Competition, do you have a plan for extraction? Or should I just give you a call?” I ask, and she laughs.

                “If the Controller shows up, I’d better be the first person you call. Otherwise, just keep me informed of your whereabouts. We’ll keep a team nearby in case of an alert.” Nearby would mean, at the least, a few hours distance. Any closer and they could blow my cover prematurely. “As for the Competition, we’re still working on something more secure.”

                “That’s reassuring,” I say dryly.

                “Just keep me updated with your efforts, but remember that winning the Competition is a guaranteed way to flush out the Controller. He always meets with the overall winner, and usually adds him to the inner circle.”

                “How do you know this?” I wonder, but I already know. There’s only one way they could have that kind of information.

                “We’ve got someone feeding us information, but they can’t get close to the Controller. That’s why we sent you in.”

                “Someone I can rely on for backup?” I wonder, because it would be damned nice to have more than an image on a screen to talk to. To have someone I can unburden myself to who isn’t halfway across the galaxy.

                “Unfortunately, no,” she says, and stops with no other explanation. Which either means that the mole has stopped feeding them information, or he’s dead. It doesn’t matter. They have me on the inside now. And I don’t need backup, as nice as it would have been. Still…

                “I’ve been thinking of bringing Zero into the loop.” She stills on the screen, her eyes coming in to focus on my face. I can see the tension in her, can already tell that she disapproves. “He’s a strong soldier,” I explain. “I think knowing about our operation would give him a mission that he’d commit to. I think he could be very helpful in gaining intel, if he knows what our aim is.”

                “You don’t think he’ll have another melt down if he finds out that you’re an operative?”

                It… is definitely a possibility. Zero’s training is so ingrained, I’m not sure he can handle the idea of rebelling, of being free. But he’s also trained to take commands from his direct superior. I’d like to think that I can convince him that his superior is me, and that he’s simply switching his allegiance from one organization to another. The idea of being free – of being on his own, of having no one to serve and protect – might not even cross his mind. If it does, I can convince him that he’ll have a place in the Department once this is over. If he wants it.

                “I think he can be convinced to our side,” I tell her, and I make sure my voice is confident and nonchalant.

                “That’s fine,” she says slowly, “but do you really think he has the acting skill necessary to keep up this kind of farce?” And, yes, that might be a problem. “Do you think it’s a good idea to spread this information around?” Zero isn’t talkative, but even the smallest slip could mean blowing my cover, or at least setting my progress back by weeks or months. “What if someone gets suspicious?” Even if they don’t have enough evidence to take me out, they could grab one of my assets and torture them for information. It would be safer for the asset not to have any information to give up. “Zeke, really, this is basic stuff for an infiltration expert…”

                And I have no interest in a lecture, so I snap, “Alright, I get it. It was just an idea.”

                She backs off, but she doesn’t seem entirely happy about it. After a few minutes of silence where I let my temper fade, she says, “I think you need to get another asset. You’ve been isolated with Zero for too long, and your judgement is being compromised.”

                I swallow the irritation that rises again at that statement. It’s difficult to admit, even to myself, that she’s probably right. I’ve spent all my time for the past three weeks with Zero. I’m forgetting about the mission, forgetting why I’m here in the first place. Interacting with the owner on Red Seven and purchasing another asset is probably the best plan to get me focused on the mission again.

                “I’m orbiting Red Seven now, and I plan to purchase another asset tomorrow.”

                “I’ll note that there is Leash activity there,” she says, and I can see her relaxing. “So you’re going to purchase a second asset this time? Not like with the trainer?”

                “Petir,” I groan, “was not worthy of training anyone. I’m not averse to getting a second asset, but it needs to be someone with potential. I can’t have mediocre assets, especially not with how exceptional Zero has turned out to be.”

                “You might have to lower your standards a bit. Zero was probably a fluke. You’ll be lucky to get a slave as well-known as your first.”

                “Yes, and I doubt my budget could handle it anyway,” I respond dryly.

                “A bit more costly than you were expecting?” she asks. “It seems like there’s a good bit of money tied up in this group. More than just buying and selling the assets. There will be other ways to make money, if you don’t want to dip too deep into your pockets.”

                There are always other ways to make money. Gambling is usually popular in these situations, along with smuggling and drugs. There are usually openings for underhanded business deals, which I’ve never had to involve my company in before but I might need to do now. And then, there’s prostitution. I can only assume that allowing someone to have sex with my asset would be worth a good deal of money, especially considering that he’s “the last Zero.” The thought makes my skin crawl, but it might be unavoidable. Zero will need significantly more training, though, before I can trust him to handle himself in a sexual situation with someone else. I don’t doubt that he will defend himself, if another owner pushes him past what he knows I’ll allow.

                “I might be able to find someone willing to invest in helping me compete, for a cut of the profits. I’m not going to worry about it until I get a better sense of this place.”

                “Which you could have been doing all week, if not for Zero’s tantrums.”

                “He’s recovering,” I defend. “He’s come further than I could have hoped, given his history. Besides, I’m going to meet an owner tomorrow who’s also a dealer. I need to bring him with me. Assuming Petir hasn’t spread the word about me – and I doubt he will, given his defeat – then this will be my tentative introduction to Leash society. So giving Zero a few days to prepare isn’t really that big of a sacrifice.”

                I haven’t told her about Zero’s problems with impotency, only that he’d been given mood-altering drugs by his former owner. I believe in giving Mari and the Department as much information as possible, but even I have limits. Zero’s sexual experiences are none of their business.

                What I don’t tell Mari, though, is that I’m committed to giving Zero an orgasm tonight. His reactions to genital stimulation have gotten stronger, and I think his body is fully recovered. I don’t think that he’s quite ready to have anal sex with me. Not just mentally. I want him trained so that anal stimulation and his orgasm are linked in is mind. There’s nothing worse than a lover who’s not interested in the sex, and having Zero actively engage in sex will be the highlight of his training. I don’t want him to be passive, I want to teach him to enjoy sex. And for that to happen, first I have to teach him how to have an orgasm and get him comfortable with this new, sexual aspect of his body. Then I can teach him how to pleasure another while also satisfying himself.

                There’s little else to cover with Mari, so we finish our discussion with a bit about my company’s business and a few more names of possible owners in the Leash that I can research. I let Mari go feeling a bit more settled about my plans. If nothing else, I’m determined that Zero will reach climax tonight, so that he can feel more confident about tomorrow’s meeting.

                Half an hour later and Zero is on his back in front of me, his cock bobbing between his legs. I have no intentions of leaving this room before Zero orgasms. Zero’s face is hesitant, like it always is during sex, but there’s no fear on his features. We’re in the bedroom, not the playroom or a guest room, because I know that Zero will be more relaxed here. I’ve been trying to keep the master bedroom as a mostly sex-free place because I want Zero to feel safe here, to know that I won’t molest him while he’s sleeping or his guard is down. But it’s not a firm rule, and I feel that it’s warranted to break it in this situation.

                I have Zero wrap his hands around the headboard. It’s a sturdy oak piece, with a molded edge that gives Zero just enough room to hook his fingers around it. I have no doubt that Zero could crack the piece of outrageously expensive wood in half. I trust that he won’t, but I think that having him react and accidentally break the wood is a lot better than having him react and accidentally break me.

                Zero pulls his stomach taut as my fingers reach for his cock, like he could flinch his body all the way through the mattress to get away from me. Pain he takes from me without hesitation, but pleasure makes him recoil in fear. I’d think that his mind has been warped by his training, but it’s a lot more likely that he simply has more experience with pain than pleasure.

                My fingertips brush the underside of his erect cock, and he makes a strangled noise that would almost be a whimper if he didn’t bite down on it so hard. I want to correct him, but it’s not like he’s fighting me. He’s just uncertain, and painfully so.

                “Relax,” I sooth as my fingers wrap around his cock, giving it a slow, delicate stroke. Unlike previous times, it firms under my touch. “Just relax and let it happen.”

                “Yes, master,” he responds, and his voice is so flat it seems like I’m about to rip his testicles off rather than get him off. I’ve never known a man to be so averse to an orgasm. But then, I’ve never known a man this age that has never had one.

                I settle more comfortably between his legs, kneeling to the side with most of my weight on my hip. I want to get comfortable, because I’ve got no idea how long this might go on for. I’m wearing only a pair of boxers, balancing the need for skin-to-skin contact with my efforts to make Zero feel secure. I don’t want him to have any fears that I’m going to use his orgasm as a way to lower his defenses so I can get inside him. Well, not tonight, anyway.

                Without preamble, I wrap my lips around his cock and suckle the head. Zero makes a choking sound, and I swear I can hear the headboard groan. I glance up to see that his hands are white-knuckled around the wood, his eyes fixed on my face. He looks terrified. I want to grin, but I don’t think it’s appropriate.

                I turn my attention back to his cock. Where Zero might be reluctant, his cock is far more excited. It’s fully erect in my mouth, hot and hard under silk-soft skin. I can feel his blood pulsing, creating a gentle throb along the underside, and I lap at the vein there. When my mouth moves back to the tip again I can taste the salty bitterness of precome, and I feel excitement flutter in the pit of my stomach. I want this, I want to give this to Zero. I want him to know that sex can be pleasurable for him, that it doesn’t have to be something he dreads.

                Even fully hard, Zero’s cock is of average size. A bit slim, and perhaps just a bit longer than normal, but certainly dimensions that I can handle, and I swallow his cock to the root. Zero lets out a sharp yell and his knees jerk, like he’s fighting the impulse to kick me off. I stay still while he adjusts and don’t start bobbing my head until his legs relax against the bed again.

                I’m good at this. It’s not ego, it’s simple fact. I have a lot of experience in cock sucking, and I’d like to think that I have a fair amount of natural talent. Once Zero settles, it’s easy to read his body. I focus on his cock, the way it feels in my mouth. I wrap one hand around the base of his cock, my other goes to fondle his testicles. They’re tight, and I brush my fingers through the short hairs, feel the way the skin is pulled up and wrinkled and ready.

                Zero gasps, his breath coming in short, frantic pants. His legs are so tense that he’s nearly shaking. I bob my head and stroke my hand in tandem, working his cock toward orgasm. I release his balls to run my hand down his thigh, stroking the tense flesh.

                “Please, master,” Zero begs breathlessly. “Please!”

                I get up on my knees to work his cock more aggressively. I can feel him getting closer, can feel the flesh in my mouth hardening in a significant way. My strokes become more concentrated. He’s so close.

                “Please!” I hear again. Zero’s panting and pleading, and I endeavor to give him what he wants.

                I pull back and suckle the head of Zero’s cock, my hand working his length. His flesh is wet with my spit, so my hand glides over him. I twist my wrist just below the head in a way that never fails to bring about a climax. He’s so close.

                “Please, master!” he cries again. “Please, I beg you to stop!”

The words take a moment to penetrate. Then it’s like a bucket of ice water.

                I jerk my head away from his cock and practically leap away from him. My eyes go immediately to his face and I find that he’s crying again, and how did I miss that? How did I misinterpret the signals?

                Zero is panting, his breaths coming in sobbing gasps. His hands are still wrapped around the headboard, and there’s definitely damage to the wood. His face is pale, his body covered in a light sheen of sweat. His eyes have a nearly panicked sheen to them, and they can’t quite meet mine. Instead, they fasten on his own cock, like it had committed a grievous betrayal against him.

                “Zero, it’s alright,” I sooth, keeping my distance at the foot of the bed. “You can let go of the headboard. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

                He stays still for a moment, but eventually he slowly releases the headboard and brings his arms down, dropping them lifelessly at his side. After a moment, Zero whispers, “I’m sorry, master.”

                “It’s okay,” I assure immediately. “You’re not in trouble. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

                He licks his lips. Takes another panicked breath. “It’s just,” he tries, “it’s all too much,” and he gestures to his cock. “It’s… intense. I can’t- I can’t handle it.”

                I should have anticipated this. Zero’s feelings have been dampened for the last few years, possibly more. He’s having trouble managing normal emotions, I can’t imagine what the intense pleasure of oral sex is making him feel.

                “Please,” he says, and I’m not used to seeing the unflappable Zero so overwrought. His eyes are too wide, and his voice sounds nearly panicked. Now that I’ve pulled away from him, I can see that his pulse isn’t pounding just with pleasure, although his cock remains stubbornly erect. “Please, just give me a second. I can do this. I can orgasm for you.”

                “It’s okay,” I tell him calmly. “We can stop for tonight.”

                “No!” he shouts, his eyes going wide with real panic. “No, you can’t!”

                “Okay, okay,” I try again, and I realize that just as much as I had my heart set on giving Zero an orgasm, he’s just as desperate to reach completion for me. And I want him to orgasm. I know that this task has risen in his mind as the reason that I should get rid of him, and I want to assure him of his place. Just as importantly, I want to give him an orgasm so we can progress with his sexual training.

                I take a moment. I take a deep breath to calm myself. Inside my boxers, my cock aches, aroused from teasing Zero. I put my palm against it and shut my eyes. The tang of disappointment is sharp, that I won’t be able to give Zero this pleasure for the first time. But right now, it’s more important that we finish.

                “Zero,” I say calmly. “It’s alright. I’m not mad, and I’m not going to touch you.”

                He looks at me, and his expression is stricken.

                “Listen to me,” I try again, and don’t reach out to him although it’s what I’d like to do. “Your goal tonight is to reach orgasm. Having me help you is too overwhelming. Your brain can’t handle the amount of stimulus that we’re throwing at it, and that’s okay. So now you’re going to complete the goal yourself. Do you understand?” He nods hesitantly, still off balance and uncertain. “Take your hand and wrap it around your cock,” I guide. “Mimic what I was doing, or do whatever feels good. I want to see you come for me.”

                Zero’s movements are still tentative in a way that I’ve never seen before. His right hand moves slowly until it’s wrapping around his cock, and his left hand clutches the blankets beneath him. When he moves, his strokes are so much slower than mine had been, his hand so loose that it’s barely touching the skin. I want to offer him oil to slick his grip, but I realize that it will only add stimulation to his already overwhelmed body. Instead, I let Zero stroke himself, setting a pace that would drive another man crazy.

                “That’s good,” I tell him, and watch his cock bob at the praise. “That’s so lovely.”

                It’s agonizingly slow, watching him build. There are several times when the sensations overwhelm him and he has to pause to loosen his grip. But I watch him patiently, offering reassuring looks whenever his glance falls on me. I’d like to think that it makes the difference.

                “Beautiful,” I tell him when he takes a firm hold of his cock at the base, just holding it for a moment when the sensation threatens to overwhelm him. A bead of precome collects on the crown as I tell him, “You’re doing such a good job for me. You’re perfect.”

                Eventually, I see Zero tense tellingly and prepare to watch him orgasm for the first time in his life.

                “That’s right,” I encourage gently when his hand finally finds a pace. “So good for me. Come for me, Zero. I want to watch you orgasm.”

                If the buildup had frightened him, then the orgasm takes him completely by surprise. His muscles tense. His free hand holds the sheets in a white-knuckled grip. His heels dig into the mattress and he arches off the bed. His eyes go wide and shocked and sightless, his mouth opens in a silent scream. His cock, having waited more than twenty years for this moment, is engorged and nearly purple, and spurts semen in a graceful arc all over Zero’s stomach. The pearly liquid splatters nearly to his chin, creating a random pattern of dots across his abdomen.

                I wait for the orgasm to end, for Zero to relax back down to the mattress, but it doesn’t happen. Zero’s cock has stopped leaking, but it’s still erect and seems in no hurry to soften. Meanwhile, Zero’s back is still arched, and his feet scrabble at the bed. I see his chest constrict, but it doesn’t seem like he can get his lungs to work.

                “Zero? Zero, calm down. Just breathe,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice calm. I remind myself that the worst he can do is to black out, that there’s nothing actually obstructing his airway. But his face is turning red and his body looks tense enough to snap. “Zero,” I call again, sliding up beside him and placing my palm on his face. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

                He takes a gasping, stuttering breath and falls back against the bed like a puppet with the strings cut. For moment all I can hear is his desperate panting. I give him time, listening to his breathing return to normal and his face to lose its redness. Finally, Zero turns his glassy eyes on me, and gives me a little grin. It’s probably the first time I’ve seen Zero actually smile.

                “Do you want to come, Master?” he asks softly. I’m still hard, despite the slight tremor of panic that I can still feel. Zero is boneless and naked beside me, covered in come and looking completely debauched, and I’d like nothing more than to flip him over and fuck him slow and deep. But he’s not ready for that, and I won’t push. So, instead, I smile and kick off my boxers, rolling until I’m lying on top of Zero. He tenses immediately.

                “Calm down, I’m not going to put it in you,” I assure. Instead, I run my cock along his, smearing them both in Zero’s come. The friction is welcome and the stimulation makes Zero groan, but he doesn’t complain. I’m painfully stiff from watching Zero, and it takes embarrassingly few strokes before I come, mixing my semen with Zero’s and smearing both of them across his stomach. I chuckle when he looks distastefully at the mess, then grab a cloth from beside the bed and clean both of us. I’m too tired to even put it in the hamper, and I toss it onto the floor after using it. I feel nearly as boneless as Zero looks, and it’s all I can do to cue the lights to turn off and curl up around him.

                “Are you pleased, Master?” he asks sleepily as I pull him into my arms.

                “Yes,” I respond. “Are you more confident that you’ll be able to adapt to life as a pleasure asset?”

                “If it’s all like that, then I’m sure I can manage,” he says dryly, some of his old attitude coming back to him. I smile and bury my face in his short hair.

                And as I drift off, I realize that it’s the first time that I haven’t been worried about anything. Not the meeting tomorrow. Not the Leash. Not the other owners. Nothing.

                Because for once, it feels like Zero and I can manage anything.

                Together.


End file.
